











jS-2^ 


MARY MIDTHORNE 






'Listen, J oan, I — I ought not to hold you to your 
promise.” (Page 222 ) 


Mary Midthorne 


BY 

GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON 

n 

AUTHOR OF GRAUSTARK, 
TRUXTON KING ETC. 


ILLUSTRATIONS BY 
MARTIN JUSTICE 



NEW YORK 

GROSSET & DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 





CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 







PAGE 

I 

Children in the Giant’s Castle 

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II 

Part of the Truth Comes Out 

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The Revealing of Several Instincts 

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The Bending of Horace Blagden 

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KHAETER i 

CHILDREN IN THE GIANT’s CASTLE 


The children of the place had their own name for the 
severely grey brick house that stood at the top of the 
hill overlooking the town. They called it “ The Giant’s 
Castle.” Not because it was inhabited by a creature 
of unusual stature or one of prodigious strength, but 
because childish fancy is so prone to identify visible 
aspects with those inspired by the imagination. The 
house, profoundly insistent in its dominance of the 
youthful vision, was not far removed from that which 
their tender intellects were pleased to consider a fitting 
abode for certain stupendous personages whose ac- 
quaintance they had made, as have all other children 
whose education has not been stunted by cross and un- 
feeling parents, — through the medium of fairy books 
and weary nurse maids’ tales. Their small but vivid 
imaginations seized upon this prim and unusually 
peaceful abode as a perfect illustration of what an 
ogre’s castle ought to be, and no amount of persuasion 
in the shape of realism could dull that impression until 
they outgrew the delights and fears of nursery liter- 
ature. 

The fact that two very small children lived in The 
Giant’s Castle,” quite without fear < of being devoured 
by the master thereof, militated not a whit against the 
juvenile fancy of Corinth-by-the-Sea, notwithstanding 
liberal playground and Sunday-school association. 

The real occupants of the house were not taken into 
account. If they had been, there would have been no 
I 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


excuse for the name. It pleased the very young to 
imagine that there were other and more horrific crea- 
tures lurking behind the grey, weatherstained walls ; it 
pleased them to believe that each of the square little 
windows in the cupola represented a peephole through 
which a ferocious giant peered in quest of the well- 
known English?7^^4W. And so, they lived in a delicious 
dread of the ogre and yet romped with the two small 
denizens about the yard and through the rooms — 
|(when opportunity in the shape of an invitation to 
*‘come up and play” presented itself). All of which 
goes to prove that nursery tales are terrifying only 
:when one has gone to bed and is left alone in the dark. 

As a matter of fact, the people who lived in the big grey 
house, from master to servant, were as mortal as mortal 
could be. To be quite precise, the master himself was 
a very superior sort of mortal, in that he set himself up 
as an example for all other men to be patterned after. 
That so few of his gender succeeded in coming quite up 
to the standard was not so much a disappointment to 
him as it was a satisfaction to them. 

Mr. Blagden was a most exemplary man. As to 
virtue and morality he was a giant. Yet, while he was 
respected, he was not feared. No one fears a truly 
good man. If the town in which Mr. Blagden lived 
had been a trifle larger than it actually was in the mat- 
i ter of population it is quite likely that he would not 
have been respected. But it was a small town, and the 
good are always respected in small towns. The paths 
are narrow there, and they are very straight. It is a 
simple process, you might say, to be moral and upright 
when the paths are so narrow that one is obliged to 
pursue a straight course or suffer the consequences of 
a bump against his neighbour’s wall, which invariably ia 


CHILDREN IN THE GIANT’S CASTLE S 

"built close up to the path and has many eyes as well as 
ears. 

When I say that everyone in Corinth-by-the-Sea 
respected Mr. Blagden, my assertion should be taken 
with a grain of salt. Respect has its degrees, and 
Corinth had its analysts. Down along the water-front 
there were drinking places, and in them were profane 
philosophers who maintained that Mr. Blagden was no 
better than other men, if one could get beneath his skin. 
Unexpectedly, of course. But, if you got beyond the 
drinking places, adjacent to which the paths were nec- 
essarily crooked and not at all restricted, you speedily 
would be set straight again as to Mr. Blagden’s real 
standing in the community. The doubts were confined 
to certain unregenerate men called sailors, and everyone 
knows that a sailor sees nothing good in a landsman. 
He never has, and he never will. We may, therefore, 
take it for granted, despite the windy opinions of those 
vituperative seadogs, that Mr, Blagden deserved the 
high esteem in which he was held by the people of 
Corinth. 

Besides, what is more to the point, the sailormen 
were not citizens of Corinth, but inhabitants of the 
Seamen’s Home situated in the nearby village of Tod- 
ville. 

Todville was what you might describe as a suburb of 
Corinth. It pleased the Corinthians to speak of it as 
a suburb when abroad in the land. At home, in the 
bosom of the municipality, they failed to regard Tod- 
ville in the same charitable light. Among themselves, 
they looked upon the village with considerable scorn 
and a great deal of aversion. It was like a growth 
upon the smooth, placid countenance of Corinth. 

There may have been very excellent reason for thia 


4 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


uncharitable attitude on the part of the smug citizens 
of Corinth. Todville was in the path of expansion. 
I do not mean to saj that the village, which clung like a 
barnacle to the side of its big sister, was in any sense 
a restriction to the commercial or material growth of 
Corinth. Not at all. It stood in the way of civic 
pride, principally because it occupied the most pictur- 
esque spot of ground to be found anywhere along the 
coast for miles around. Inasmuch as it was within ten 
minutes’ walk of the most fashionable and exclusive res- 
idence district of Corinth, and because it was in itself 
a mean and humble witness to the progress of the 
splendour it halted, Todville was a despised spot, though 
coveted. With Todville and its half hundred shanties 
out of the way, Corinth would have been able to spread 
its gathered plumes, and fly out from its crowded nest 
to settle down upon a new and coveted stretch of Earth, 
there to prink and pout with all the arrogance of a 
peacock, while the world passed by and envied. 

But mean little Todville stood in the way. The 
charmed point that ran out into the sea, lofty and 
ironic, with its magnificent view up and down the coast, 
from whose heights one could stare in pity across and 
beyond the very summits of haughty Corinth, — the 
point, I say, was quite beyond the grasp of those who 
most desired its beauty. It belonged to a very close 
corporation of philanthropists to whom the comfort of 
antiquated sailormen was of more consequence than the 
consolation of ambitious dwellers in palaces. 

Years before, when Corinth was not purse-proud 
and lordly, these kindly gentlemen established the 
Aged Seamen’s Home on Lord’s Point, a deed in per- 
petuity guaranteeing the dwellers therein against evic- 
tion. Unhappily for the present generations in Cor- 


CHILDREN IN THE GIANT’S CASTLE 5 


inth, the heirs of the original promoters, with one or two 
exceptions, resided in New York, Boston or Philadel- 
phia, and they, holding Corinth in some disdain, stub- 
bornly refused to entertain a proposition to join in the 
effort to set aside the first grant, with the provision 
that the Home be transferred to another and less im- 
posing section of the coast, some distance removed 
from Lord’s Point. 

And so it was that the Ancients remained almost un- 
der the nose, — or, more properly speaking, under the 
eye, — of Corinth-by-the-Sea, secure in their rights and 
far from clannish in their patronage. It was but a step 
down the beach-road from Todville to the water-front 
bar-rooms of Corinth. Like migratory ants, the An- 
cients swarmed down from the Point and straggled 
back again — physically unable to swarm — each pay- 
ing his tithe to the municipality and taking away in 
turn a copious share of grog, from the effects of which 
he recovered with a matutinal fortitude that annoyed 
his more holy but less hardy neighbours. 

Particular attention is drawn to Horace Blagden in 
view of the fact that his own grandfather was one of 
the prime movers in establishing the now obnoxious 
Home on Lord’s Point. Moreover, Horace Blagden’s 
home, the grey house on the hill, was so close to the 
line separating the Todville reservation from Corinth 
that he could have thrown a stone from his stable-yard 
well into the preserve, provided, of course, that he was 
in the habit of throwing stones. But Mr. Blagden 
never threw stones, either literally or figuratively. He 
was content to let other people do that, relying on his 
own aloofness to escape without bruises to himself. 

No one could afford to throw stones at Mr. Blagden. 
He was the great man of Corinth. 


6 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


After a single, ineffectual attempt on his own part 
to get possession of the Point for himself, he settled 
back and looked the other way. Thereafter, the town 
of Corinth did all of the talking, and voiced all of the 
resentment toward the lowly village of Todville, seated, 
as it were, almost under the gates of Nineveh. 

The venerable sea-dogs from the Point, in their liba- 
tions, spoke freely of Horace Blagden because they 
owed nothing to him since he had tried to take away 
from them that which his grandfather had given. They 
were quite alone in their privileges. It may be said, in 
explanation of this rather ambiguous remark, that 
nearly everyone else in Corinth owed something, in one 
way or another, to the expansive Mr. Blagden. 

He was the president of the private banking house 
of Blagden & Co., besides being the head of such insti- 
tutions as the Street Railway Company, the Short Coast 
Steamship Company, the Building and Loan Associa- 
tion, the Merchant’s Protective Society, the Corinth 
Brick and Lime Works, the Country Club, the Town 
Board, and, last but by no means least, the Congre- 
gational Sunday School. I almost forgot to include the 
Greenvale Cemetery Association. Only the most vio- 
lent politics kept him from ascending to the Presi- 
dency of the Seamen’s Home Society. 

I apprehend that no one who reads these lines will 
undertake to dispute my claim that Mr. Blagden was 
the most influential person in Corinth. I think I have 
established the proof in these brief sentences that he was 
a very superior sort of mortal, if, indeed, he was not 
a little more than that. 

While Mr. Blagden was very powerful and very 
good, and very proud of it, he was not what one would 
call popular. He was not liked for the enemies he had 


CHILDREN IN THE GIANT’S CASTLE T 


made; although, if he had an enemy, he did not know 
it. Even the venerable sea-dogs were somewhat punc- 
tilious in this respect: they did all of their talking in 
the bar-rooms, and were as close as clams when they 
got outside, guarding against the remote possibility 
that he might, by chance, be in the slums collecting 
-rents. They would not put it above him. Still, they 
fell with common accord into the habit of openly re- 
specting Mr. Blagden, reserving their private opinions 
for public-houses. Mr. Blagden’s bank cashed their 
pension vouchers without question and without charge. 

I have said there we: c two small children in the 
so-called “ Giant’s Castle,” and that the youngsters of 
the upper social circles enjoyed acquaintance wdth them. 
I might have said there were three, except that a strange 
respect for the fitness of things restrained me. It is 
necessary, however, to announce that there were three, 
brother, sister, and cousin, if that is not too involved. 
The brother and sister were the wards of Horace Blag- 
den ; their cousin was his son. The small folk of upper 
Corinth mentioned the Midthome children in one breath, 
and Chetwynd Blagden in another. More often than 
otherwise, he was not mentioned at all. There was 
joyousness in the breath that they gave to the Mid- 
thorne children, and something akin to reluctance in 
that which they devoted to Chetwynd. If the play- 
mates of Horace Blagden’s son were slow to speak of 
him, I feel that I may be excused for having neglected 
to mention him in the same sentence with his cousins. 

Chetwynd was older than they, by several years. As 
the only son of Horace Blagden, he may have been 
pardoned for the distinct air of superiority that he as- 
sumed, even as a very small boy. His attitude toward 
his cousins was patronising when it was not inimical. 


8 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


He lorded it over them in the most high-handed fashion, 
and his teaching justified him in that particular. Per- 
haps it was not altogether his fault. Chetwjnd might 
have been a better boy and a more generous one had he 
not been the only son and heir of Horace Blagden, the 
great man of Corinth. The perfectly obvious fact that 
other children loved his cousins caused him, in his envy, 
to set his small hand against them, as well. He was 
privileged to treat them, one and all, with the disdain 
his position recommended to him. Was not he the scion 
of a rich and highly respected family.^ Were not all 
other small creatures in Corinth but clods in his path.^ 
Above all, were not these cousins of his dependents on 
the bounty of his father, and barely tolerated as such.^ 
Why, then, was he not better than they, and why not 
infinitely above those undiscriminating infants who 
elected, in their ignorance, to love them.^ In a more 
sensitive soul than his, the truth would have smarted. 
But he was the son of the great man of Corinth and he 
knew not the law of equality. He chose to be the lord, 
whether they liked it or not. 

No child asked permission of its mother to go up to 
Chetwynd’s house; they asked to go up to the Mid- 
thornes’. Therein lies the distinction and also the dif- 
ference. 

This narrative will not deal at length with the chil- 
dren of “ The Giant’s Castle.” It is the purpose of 
the narrator to make his hearers acquainted with the 
three of them while they were very tiny persons, and 
then to carry them over the years as quickly as pos- 
sible. In the meantime, we may all come to know 
Horace Blagden and his wife better, besides getting 
something of an inward view of other people who at- 
tended them in the capacity of subjects. 


CHILDREN IN THE GIANT’S CASTLE 9 


, First, let us locate CorIntli-by-tlie-Sea. It is a place 
of some six thousand souls, three hours from Boston 
by rail, and not half so far as the crow flies. It is of 
no importance which direction one has to travel from 
Boston to reach the little seaport, north or south. 
Suffice it to say, it is an old town, and its first families 
of to-day were known by the same names two hundred 
years ago. It is a thriving place, after a slow and 
dignified fashion. There is a port there, where coast 
steamers call, and freighters put in; while from its 
little harbour a half hundred prosperous fishing boats 
fare forth in season to reap a harvest from the sea. 

It is said that once there was a time when Corinth 
was without a Blagden, but the period was of short 
duration. It seems that Horace Blagden’s great-grand- 
father went off to London to reside, taking with him 
his sons and daughters, his wife, his menservants and 
his maidservants, but not his asses. They remained in 
Corinth. In time the menservants and the maidserv- 
ants returned, and then the wife. The War of the Rev- 
olution was over. She put the old house in order, and 
then came her husband and his sons and daughters, for 
none of them married in the land across the sea. Since 
then there has always been a Blagden in Corinth. 

Generations of them accumulated the fortune and the 
prestige that served to make Horace Blagden, in his 
day, the great man of Corinth. More than this, he 
was a recognised force in the vast money centres of the 
land, for he was rich even unto the point of command- 
ing respect among the richest. Blagden & Co., Bank- 
ers, 22 Blagden street, Corinth, was a powerful con- 
cern. It could lend money when times were so hard 
that other institutions trembled. 

Horace Blagden, when he came out of Harvard, went 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


10 

into the bank with his father. Then he set out, not un- 
like the princes of old, to find him a wife from among 
the lordly of the land. He journeyed far and came at 
last to the walls of a city called Gotham. He stormed 
a castle there and rescued a beautiful maiden from the 
ogres whom nature had constituted her father and 
mother, just in time to keep them from delivering her 
over to the mercy of an English gentleman who owned 
a coronet and a ducal palace, and nothing else, ex- 
cept a ripping stud. 

She was a Van Dykeman. 

Then, out of a fashionable school for young ladies, 
came Horace Blagden’s only sister, Mary. She came 
out prematurely, it may be added, to run away with 
and marry the gallant youth who afterward became 
the father of the two little Midthornes, cousins to Chet- 
wynd and wards of their unhappy mother’s brother. 

It had always been easy sailing for Horace Blag- 
den. He stepped into his father’s shoes, so to speak, 
when the old gentleman vacated them, and became at 
once, when he was but little past thirty, the great man of 
Corinth. He had not married for love. On the other 
hand his sister had, because she possessed the power to 
love. Perhaps that is why Horace had such placid 
waters on which to sail, while Mary had forever the roar 
of breakers in her ears. Mary came to grief. She 
loved intensely — and once too often. 

Briefly, let me explain how it came to pass that her 
children found themselves more or less securely es- 
tablished in the grey house on the hill, unloved but 
tolerated with a resignation that even they, small as they 
were, could not fail to appreciate. 

Up to the time Eric, the boy, was five, and his sister, 
the new Mary, two, they lived with their parents in a 


CHILDREN IN THE GIANT’S CASTLE ll 


thriving Georgia town, the home place of the father 
and his father before him. Old Mr. Blagden resented 
his daughter’s marriage to the handsome, whilom Mid- 
thorne. The young man once had been a visitor in 
Corinth, coming from Harvard with college mates for 
the summer, and his carryings-on had quite thoroughly 
scandalised the staid, puritanical element in the town, 
although affording great delight and encouragement to 
the youth of the place. It is said that the spirit of 
emulation which thrived in Corinth long after he went 
his joyous way, following that first and only visit, was 
such that if it had been as vigorously directed in another 
cause might have produced nothing but saints among 
the young men of Corinth. But it took a different di- 
rection altogether. For a time it was feared that there 
would be no stopping the lads. They went a dreadful 
pace and seemed proud of it. Old Mr. Blagden took 
hold upon Horace in good time. He commanded him 
to have nothing in common with Phil Midthorne, pro- 
claiming him to be an imp of perdition. The young 
men had been friends. Horace made the fatal mistake 
of snubbing the Georgian on the street one day, where- 
upon Midthorne, after demanding an explanation and 
getting it, proceeded to thrash his future brother-in- 
law. It is needless to say that Horace despised him 
from that day forth. If Mary Blagden was not easily 
managed by her father, Midthorne found the task by 
no means difiicult. She was in love with him — as were 
all the girls in Corinth, for that matter, — and his be- 
labouring of Horace increased rather than checked her 
interest. 

She never got on well with her brother. He bullied 
her after a polite fashion, all his own, and, as she 
couldn’t retaliate so politely, he had all the better of 


12 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


her. Midthorne, to his own intense amazement, fell 
desperately in love with the girl. But he had to thrash 
Horace, just the same. You can well imagine his grat- 
ification when he found, almost at once, that he went up 
considerably in the girPs estimation after that disgrace- 
ful encounter. She experienced a malicious delight in 
standing up for him against Horace, not only in public 
but in the bosom of her own family. She ‘‘ ended up 
by marrying the family bug-bear, — for that is what 
Midthorne grew to be, — and promptly abandoned Cor- 
inth forever. Horace never quite got it out of his 
head that she married Phil in order to annoy the family. 

Be that as it may, they made a sorry failure of it, 
those Midthornes. Phil was not heavily endowed with 
this world’s goods, nor was he likely to acquire any- 
thing. He was a good fellow, a favourite, and it was his 
secret belief that the world owed a living to all good 
fellows. 

Together they lived rather a thriftless life in the 
Georgia town, neither of them caring much whence 
sustenance came, just so long as it came. His people 
were poor. He had but little help from them. Mary’s 
were rich, but she would not have accepted aid from them 
if she had been starving. Be it recorded, to Phil’s 
credit, he would no more have taken from them than 
she. 

She was the kind of woman who thrives on the atten- 
tion of other men. There was a-plenty of them in their 
wide circle of friends who were ready and willing to 
give it to her, for she was beautiful, she was gay, she 
was witty. It was not long before gossip attached 
itself to her. Soon after the second child was born, 
Mary Midthorne began to chafe restlessly under the 
restraint of a quiet home life in the Southern town. 


CHILDREN IN THE GIANT’S CASTLE 13 


Phil had grown tiresome, commonplace in the extreme. 
He was no longer the dashing beau of her ante-nuptial 
days. Instead, he was slowly drifting into a disgust- 
ing state of complacency, — and complacency was the 
one condition that Mary despised more than all others. 
He loved his home and his children ; he was getting over 
his love for the world. They quarrelled less than had 
been their wont. He was getting so that he would not 
even take the trouble to quarrel with her over the at- 
tention other men paid her — with her permission. 
She went farther and farther in a spirit of defiance to 
him — and his complacency. She got over her love 
for him, but it was like gall and wormwood to feel that 
he did not love her, — at least, in the old, impassioned 
way. She was still young, still pretty, still worth 
while: she could feel. 

One day Phil found her lunching with a man he had 
particularly advised her to avoid, as there had already 
been talk about them. He upbraided her, in the pres- 
ence of the man. That night she did not come home. 
He followed her to New Orleans, and from that city to 
Pass Christian. Out on the famous Shell Road he came 
upon her and the man. 

He took her to the county seat with him, but he left 
the man lying by the roadside, a bullet through his 
heart. The unwritten law! He was discharged by a 
chivalrous Mississippi jury, and journeyed amiably 
back to his home and his babies, but without the wife 
and mother. It was a part of his unwritten law that 
she should keep to the path she had chosen. 

Of course, in this grave emergency, Horace Blagden 
and his father might have been expected to come for- 
ward with a helping hand outstretched to the wayward 
outcast. But not they! They were of Corinth and 


*145 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


they were great men and impeccable. They closed 
their hearts and their hands against her. She wore a 
scarlet letter. 

Mary was not of the kind that goes to the gutter. 
The gutter is not a comfortable abiding place, nor is it 
one of luxury. She liked comfort and luxury. She 
went to Paris instead. Two years after the tragedy on 
the Shell Road she came to a sudden and perhaps timely 
end through an attack of fever while acting in the ca- 
pacity of governess in the home of a wealthy expatri- 
ated New Yorker, whose wife, for reasons never made 
public, became estranged from him after Mary had 
been in the family a spare three months. 

A strange coincidence followed. Philip Midthome 
died of pneumonia in less than a month after his wife’s 
demise. 

Within a year thereafter Horace Blagden, now the 
great man of Corinth, since the passing away of his 
father, arose to the highest known point in Blagden 
generosity. He journeyed south with his wife and laid 
claim to the Midthorne infants, proffering a home, and 
an education, and other advantages which their paternal 
grandparents could ill efford to spurn. The children 
were allowed to come north, to the grey house on the 
hill, to the chill winds of Corinth, so unlike the soft, 
balmy airs of their birthplace, so far removed from the 
warm, lazy love of those gentle Midthornes. From 
flower-covered, ruin-racked mansion under a blue sky, 
to bare, grim, solidly prosperous walls under a sky that 
was always white. 

Corinth paused aghast. Horace had done the one 
thing that no one believed him capable of doing. He 
had taken into his own home, to his own prim New 
England hearth, the offspring of the despised Magda- 


CHILDREN IN THE GIANT’S CASTLE 15 


len and her red-handed husband. The children of an 
adulteress ! The children of a murderer ! 

Horace Blagden kept his own counsel. He offered 
no explanation, no excuse for his surprising act. He 
was legally appointed guardian of the little ones; he 
set them down, with a grim sense of his own power, 
among the unblemished children of Corinth, and all Cor- 
inth was quiescent. No mother lifted up her voice 
against the affront, no father protested. They ac- 
cepted the little Midthornes, and were amazed in them- 
selves, 

A word in explanation of Horace’s act. It was dis- 
covered, on the reading of old Mr. Blagden’s will, that 
he had not quite forgotten his lovely, though erring 
daughter. There was a clause bequeathing one hun- 
dred thousand dollars to each of her children, the money 
to go to them when they had attained the age of twenty- 
one, the bequest, in the interim, to be under the control 
of a guardian appointed by the court. It was upon the 
discovery of this imexpected clause that Horace Blag- 
den set about, with some haste, to have himself ap- 
pointed guardian. It also occurred to him that it 
would be the part of wisdom for him to attend to the 
I bringing up of his wards, under his own eye and guid- 
ance. 

And so it was that the two little Midthornes came to 
the grey house on the hill, where the hearts were cold 
and bitter, and where the ways were hard. 

When they came, blinking and wide-eyed, they found 
their cousin, Chetwynd, there. He was four years older 
than Eric. Age was not his only asset in superiority, 
you may be sure. From the beginning, Chetwynd 
looked upon his unlucky cousins as interlopers, as de- 
pendents, far beneath him in every respect. It was 


16 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


necessary for him to pummel Eric roundly on the sec- 
ond day after his arrival. Eric, small as he was, openly 
had resented the larger boy’s airs, being a manly little 
chap with fire in his blood. For this, he was kept 
locked in a dark closet for three hours. I mean Eric, 
of course. When Chetwynd told his mother that he 
had thrashed his cousin, that excellent disciplinarian 
promptly proceeded to punish Eric, so that it would 
not happen again. 

The little warm-hearted Midthornes made friends 
quickly among the children in the set affected by the 
Blagdens. They were not permitted to go outside this 
circle. After the first few weeks of uncertainty in their 
new surroundings, they rose to their own level of joy- 
ousness. Not even the overbearing attitude of Chet- 
wynd could chill this natural warmth of manner; nor 
the stern, lean face of their Uncle Horace ; nor the am- 
plified repugnance of their Aunt Rena. They were 
happy because they knew not how to be otherwise. 

This was when they were six and three. They had 
no ideals. They had nothing black to remember, for 
they only knew that their father and mother had gone 
away for a long time. They knew nothing of Cain and 
Magdalen. 

But they were to know before they were many years 
older. 


CHAPTER II 


PART OF THE TRUTH COMES OUT 

Eric was twelve years old when his aunt, in a fit of an- 
noyance, brought on by his throwing a stone at the 
fleeing tormentor, Chetwynd, told hini that his father 
was a murderer, and that he was likely to become one 
himself unless he mended his ways. 

It was the first he knew of that tragic episode in the 
life of his blithe father. The blow was so crushing that 
he was a long time in coming to the full realisation of 
its force. He slunk off, dazed, bewildered, frightened. 
Chetwynd’s taunting laugh pursued him as he made his 
way blindly through the yard to the street below. 

That was but the beginning. They had held it back 
as long as it was in their natures to do so. The great 
wonder lies in the fact that they refrained at all. Little 
Mary was not slow to observe the sudden change in her 
brother. A curious depression, an unaccountable sul- 
lenness in his manner puzzled her. Young as she was, 
she knew that there was something in his mind which he 
would not reveal to her. 

He was but twelve. He possessed not the power of 
initiative in so grave, so stupendous a problem as the 
one which confronted him. He could not bring himself 
to ask the terrible questions. There was no one to 
whom he could go. It cajne over him suddenly that he 
was deprived of all that was good and noble and decent 
in the world. In his small, groping mind, he wondered 
if all the children with whom he played knew of the 
great secret, if all of them knew that his father had 

17 


18 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


killed a man. With furtive eye and a new purpose, he 
watched their faces for signs betraying the slightest 
sense of aversion toward him. He waited in a great, 
hungry suspense for his aunt to repeat her tirade. He 
waited for fresh taunts from Chetwynd — he even in- 
vited them, with a subtleness surprising in one so young. 

But they were frightened, they were wary. Mrs. 
Blagden, in her haste, had spoken without consulting 
the master. Horace had told her often that when the 
proper time came, in his opinion, he would tell the chil- 
dren the story of their misguided parents. She real- 
ised that she had gone far beyond her rights in robbing 
him of the privilege. 

She was not sorry for Eric. The haunting, ever alert 
question in the boy’s dark eyes made no impression on 
her. She had lived too long in the grey house on the 
hill for that. Besides, he had thrown a stone at Chet- 
wynd. And more than that, the boys who came up to 
play always asked for Eric, not Chetwynd. She could 
not understand it in them. She secretly resented the 
preference. 

Several days after her unfortunate slip, she went to 
her pastor for advice. She had not slept well. She 
was afraid that Eric might go to his uncle for the truth. 
The Rev. Dr. Presbrey, of the First Congregational 
Church of Corinth, was a good man, an immaculate 
Christian, a traveller who had not even glanced beyond 
the confines of the narrow path. He had lived in Cor- 
inth for fifty years, since the day of his birth, and once 
had done something notable in the general Council at 
Boston, which, however, had not been of sufficient mo- 
ment to abstract him from Corinth. 

He listened to Mrs. Blagden’s confession, then called 
in his wife for a three-sided consultation in which the 


PART OF THE TRUTH COMES OUT 19 


clerical pair agreed to everything advanced by their 
best-paying parishioner ; and later on, proposed that she 
give him until the next Thursday evening to consider 
the case. 

After inviting the minister and his wife to dine with 
her on the coming Thursday, Mrs. Blagden felt some- 
what easier in her mind. She felt, somehow, that God 
would step into the breach. To the best of her recol- 
lection He had never failed her — that is to say. He had 
not failed her since she came to Corinth. Sometimes 
she looked back upon her dancing days in New York, 
and wondered if they were real. They must have been, 
for she had succeeded in getting Horace’s consent to let 
Chetwynd attend dancing school. It was for the sole 
purpose, I believe, of making him graceful. 

The old seaman who kept the upper-road gate to 
the grounds belonging to the Home on the Point was 
Eric’s particular friend and crony. The ancient was 
rather chary about letting children inside the grounds 
unless accompanied by parents or nurses. He had 
grown, however, to like the manly, straightforward little 
Midthorne boy and his pretty, baby-faced sister. They 
were always welcome. Other children hooted at him 
when he refused them admission. Eric had said to him 
once, on being turned away : 

“I’m sorry. Major. Perhaps if I come again some 
other day you’ll let me in to watch the squirrels. Good 
day, sir.” 

There were three things in this very tactful speech 
that operated in Eric’s favour. First, the politeness of 
it; second, the wistfulness of it; third, the grandeur of 
it. Jabez Carr had been a captain’s mate, it is true, 
but he had never been by way of acquiring such a mag- 
nificent title as “Major.” It occurred to him at once 


20 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


that the boy was not of Corinth. No Corinth lad would 
have called him a Major. He remembered that the 
Southland is full of Majors. It was not for a small 
boy to know that the sea does not produce Majors. 

So Jabez said, relenting a bit: “ You come from the 
South, don’t you, sonny? ” 

“ Yes, sir,” said Eric. ‘‘ I was born in Georgia.” 

“ I thought so,” said Jabez. 

“ I am Mr. Blagden’s nephew, and this is my sister 
Mary.” Mary curtseyed to the old sailorman. 

“ I love squirrels,” said she. 

Come around to-morrow,” said Jabez genially. 

“ Thank you. Major,” cried Eric. 

‘‘ Thank you. Major,” piped Mary. 

That was the beginning of a friendship that grew to 
something akin to devotion. Jabez experienced a great 
deal of trouble at first in subduing a natural inclination 
to nautical expletives, harmless before the mast, but 
very much out of place in the presence of a young per- 
son in pinafores. He was surprised to find how readily 
his verbs submitted to the new influences, although he 
would have been surprised to have heard them described 
as verbs. 

The two children stole away frequently after school 
hours, or during the protracted summer vacation, to 
pay sly visits to the delighted old mariner. He repaid 
them out of the stores of an unbounded imagination. 
His tales of the sea ; his hair-raising encounters with 
pirates, cannibals, sharks and ‘‘ h’ants ” ; his countless 
wrecks and rescues ; his wonderful experiences in snatch- 
ing beauteous young ladies (all of whom were of the 
nobility), from infamous buccaneers; his life in the 
very island that Robinson Crusoe had inhabited ; his de- 
scents to the bottom of the sea in quest of Davy Jones; 


PART OF THE TRUTH COMES OUT 21 


his — but why go on? Jabez possessed an imagina- 
tion far superior to mine. In fact, he never knew until 
then just how magnificent it was, and he was very 
greatly pleased with himself. He used to lie awake 
nights, “ thinking up ” lies for their delectation, and 
then he would have to remain unusually wide awake dur- 
ing the daytime to avoid contradictions. Eric had 
caught him up sharply in one or two of his earlier 
lapses, and he experienced a sense of deep humiliation 
on finding himself so defective. 

His gravest slip was in regard to an almost simul- 
taneous action under Lord Nelson at Trafalgar and 
Admiral Farragut at Mobile. He was at once forced 
into a deep wonder and an uneasy respect for Eric’s 
knowledge of history. Moreover, he was one day con- 
founded by the boy’s damning declaration that he must 
be nearly two hundred years old to have engaged in all 
of the transactions mentioned. 

It was to old Jabez that Eric went after waiting in 
vain for a renewal of Mrs. Blagden’s attack on his 
father’s honour. On the afternoon of the day that 
the minister and his wife were to dine with them, 
the boy decided to make specific inquiries of the old 
seaman. 

He went about it nervously, but determinedly. 

“ Uncle Jabe,” he began, after procuring the old 
man’s pipe and tobacco from the shelf in the watch- 
house, ‘‘ did you know my mother? ” 

The word Major had been abandoned sometime be- 
fore at Mr. Carr’s request, and “ Uncle J abe ” substi- 
tuted. He said he liked it better; it wasn’t so formal. 
Besides, he admitted, in a burst of truthfulness, he had 
never been more than a Captain’s mate. 

‘‘ Not personally, my lad,” replied Jabez, between 


22 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


puffs. “ Jest as everyone knowed her hereabouts. 
Kind of at a distance, you might say.” 

“ Did you know my father? ” 

Jabez looked up quickly. He had never heard quite 
that note in the boy’s voice before. It occurred to him, 
also, that Eric was paler than usual. The old man 
suddenly felt the need of a cautious reply. He did his 
best. 

‘‘ Yes, sir, and he was a powerful fine chap, too. I 
used to see a great deal of him when he lived here- 
abouts.” 

“ But he didn’t live here. Uncle Jabe.” 

Jabez collected himself in four fierce puffs at his pipe. 
‘‘ To be sure he didn’t,” he corrected. “ I was thinkin’ 
of another feller. A feller named Briggs. Handsome 
chap as used to be second mate on the Firefly, a ship 
I—” 

‘‘ Did my father kill a man? ” 

Of course, old Jabez knew the story of the ill-fated 
Midthornes. One could not live in Corinth or Tod- 
ville and be out of touch with Blagden history. But it 
had not occurred to him that Eric might be ignorant of 
the tragedy in his own small life. 

Jabez got up from the bench and violently hurled 
his cane at a squirrel that frisked nearby, — an un- 
heard-of act of cruelty on the part of the keeper of 
the gate. 

“ Consarn them pests ! ” he growled as he shuffled 
over to recover the cane. The squirrel, in plain as- 
tonishment, paused after retreating a rod or two, and 
looked back at its former friend. Whereupon Jabez, 
hoping to gain time, hurled hi^ cane once more. The 
third attempt required a most unnecessary and futile 
fling into the lower branches of a tree which might have 


PART OF THE TRUTH COMES OUT 23 


been considered the private property of the perplexed 
quadruped. ‘‘ Always pestering a feller, dang ’em. 
They’re gettin’ so dog-gone sassy lately that they jest 
set up and make faces at me. Did you see that little 
cuss turnin’ up his nose at me? If I ever — ” 

“ I want to know all about my father,” interrupted 
Eric, a tense note in his young voice. “ What did he 
do? Tell me. My aunt says he killed a man.” 

A bright thought struck the old man. 

“ Sure he did, and a danged brave thing it was, too. 
Didn’t your aunt tell you how brave he was? ” 

“ No. She said he murdered a man in cold blood.” 

Jabez said something under his breath and looked 
about him for another squirrel, — or perhaps it was the 
cat, for one with very sharp ears might have caught a 
reference to that animal in his muttered remark. 

“Well, I’ll be jiggered! Did she say that? She 
must be crazy. Why, it was done in a juel, fair and 
square. Everybody knows that.” 

“A jewel?” 

“ Yes, sir, a juel. They fit a juel. With swords, 
d’ye see — or maybe it was pistols. They fit like two 
? Southern gentlemen always fight, — with weepins. 
Ain’t you ever heerd about it? Well, well! I guess 
you was too young. Takes a mighty brave feller to 
fight a juel, sonny.” 

Eric’s eyes began to glow; his lips trembled with the 
sudden gush of relief that swept through him. 

“ A duel. Uncle Jabe? ” he cried. “ A real duel? ” 

“A reg’lar juel, the kind you read about in books. 
I’ve seen many of ’em in my time. Brave fellers fightin’ 
fer their lady loves. That’s wot your pa was a doin’, — 
fightin’ fer his true lady love.” 

“ For my mother ? ” 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


^4 

Jabez felt that he had come near to overdoing it. 
He acquiesced with haste. 

“ Of course. Who else? ” he demanded. 

“ Why did Aunt Rena say he had murdered a man? 
It isn’t murder if you kill a man in a duel. Everybody 
knows that.” 

“ These ’ere Corinth folks ain’t got no idea of 
chit^aZery,” explained Jabez warmly. “ They ain’t like 
you an’ me. They are the narriest people on the face 
of the yearth. Wot does your aunt know about chi- 
traZery? Nobody ever fought a juel fer her, did they? 
I sh’d say not ! Did your Uncle Horace ever challenge 
anybody to pistols or cutlasses? No, sir reel It ain’t 
in ’em. Course she’d think it was murder. S’posin’ 
the other feller’d killed your pa? Wot then? S’posin’ 
they’d both hit each other in a vital spot. Wot then? 
She’d call it a double murder. It shows how danged 
narry these Northerners are.’^ 

He had worked himself into a pretty state. 

You said you were from Maine,” reminded Eric, 
his eyes dancing. It filled the old man’s heart with 
joy to see the effect of his ruthless lying. 

It was necessary for him to repudiate the state he 
loved so well. 

‘‘Who said I was bom in Maine? Who, I ask? 
Me from Maine? Well, I guess not. I — I went to 
school in Maine for three years, but that’s all. I was 
bom in Virginny. Don’t you ever say I — ” 

“ Listen, Uncle Jabe,” interrupted the boy eagerly. 
“Won’t you tell me all about my father and the duel? 
What was it about? Who was the other man? 
Where was my mother when — ” 

“ Stow that, now, my lad,” cried Jabez Carr. “ Don’t 
ask so many questions. Why, shiver me, I’m no en- 


PART OF THE TRUTH COMES OUT 25 


cyclopeedy. Jest wait a minute till I go over and 
shut that gate. Then I’ll — ” 

“ I’ll do it,” cried Eric, starting off eagerly. 

But Jabez halted him with an exclamation in which 
dismay was barely disguised by gruffness. He needed 
a moment for reflection, and he needed an inspiration. 

“Set down! I’ll shut my own gate, sonny. Wot 
am I here for ? Set down, I say.” 

It seemed to the impatient, quivering boy that the old 
man was unconscionably slow in performing the simple 
feat. Mr. Carr’s brow was more deeply corrugated 
than ever as he shufiled back to the watch-house bench. 
At first he sought to change the topic of conversation, 
then he assumed anger at the boy’s persistence. Eric’s 
white, eager, quivering face distressed him. He real- 
ised, with a pain in his heart, that his little friend would 
not be denied. He was determined to know the truth, 
and the truth was the thing that poor old Jabez was 
striving to evade. Far back in his mind lay the con- 
viction that one day the boy would know the wretched 
story, but now was not the time, nor was he the proper 
person to make the disclosure. It does not disturb my 
conscience, therefore, to commend the course taken by 
Jabez Carr. He lied nobly, with the best of intentions, 
and his sin, though sure to be found out, was worthy 
of a lasting place among the virtues. 

To be sure, in his enthusiasm, he overdid it, but why 
hold that up against him? He made Philip Midthorne 
out to be a hero, the like of whom never walked through 
the most exalted tale of chivalry. His description of 
that well-imagined combat on the lonely duelling ground, 
and the circumstances that led up to it, merited dis- 
tinction in the choicest yellow-back fiction of any age. 
I leave his story to your imagination. I have my own 


26 MARY MIDTHORNE 

to tell. The effect it had on the boy is all that I care 
to record. 

When the lengthy, involved and highly coloured nar- 
rative came to an end — which was when the old man 
reached a stage where he realised that he was beginning 
to contradict himself because he couldn’t remember just 
what had gone before, — the boy was fairly squirming 
with excitement, and pride, and glory in his heroic 
father. Jabez left nothing to the imagination, albeit 
he uttered not a single word of the truth. 

Later on, the old man watched his young friend 
scudding up the hill toward the gate in the rear wall 
surrounding the Blagden garden and stable-yard. He 
was very thoughtful, and he shook his grizzled head in 
deep perplexity. 

“ He’ll find out the truth some day, poor lad,” mused 
he, and all my lyin’ will go for naught. Mebby 
’twould been better to have told him the truth. What 
a fine little chap he is.” 

Eric encountered Chetwynd in the grape arbour. 
The older boy was snugly ensconced in a remote nook, 
where he spent much of his leisure time reading, far 
from the questioning eyes of his parents, and quite out 
of view from any of the windows in the house itself. 
He chose this spot because it was secluded, and he 
denied either of his cousins the right to approach within 
twenty paces of his lair. Two or three severe kick- 
ings had convinced Eric that discretion was better than 
valour. He kept his distance thereafter, but down in 
his heart he cherished the hope that there would come 
a time when he would be big enough to drive the proud 
bully from his paradise. You may be sure that Chet- 
wynd’s nook was the shadiest, the coolest and altogether 


PART OF THE TRUTH COMES OUT 2T 


the most desirable in the garden. He chose it with 
considerable perception. It was there that ostensibly 
he pursued the course in reading his father had laid 
down for him. If you had approached cautiously from 
behind, you would have observed that a flashy, blood- 
stirring paper back “ library ” of the five and ten cent 
variety reposed atop the obscured pages of Virgil. 
Chetwynd managed, in some way, to read at least one 
of these demoralising pamphlets every day. His mind 
was soaked with the vicious performances of certain 
highwaymen, road-agents, detectives, and the more ex- 
alted but scarcely less approvable virtues of youthful 
heroes. 

His doting parents would have been shocked beyond 
measure could they have known of this unexampled 
straying. 

Eric usually gave the sacred spot a wide berth. To- 
day, full of exaltation, he boldly invaded the nook. 

“ Get out of this ! ” roared Chetwynd, scarcely be- 
lieving his eyes. He lowered his feet from their perch 
on the trellis, and was almost prepared to rise from the 
small of his back, on which he was sitting. 

The ugly scowl did not daunt the trespasser. He 
came up quite close to his cousin. 

“ You can kick me if you want to, but I mean to 
tell — ” he began. 

Chetwynd interrupted him with a mild oath. A 
moment later he was standing over the smaller boy, 
his arm drawn back threateningly. 

“ If you tell father what I’ve been reading. I’ll break 
your neck,” he hissed. He was pale, not with anger^ 
but at the thought of the information going to his 
father. 


28 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


“ Oh, I’m not a tattle-tale,” cried Eric. You 
know better than that. You’re a tell-tale yourself, but 
I’m not. You — ” 

“ Don’t you call me a tell-tale ! ” 

“ Well, you are. You tell on me to Aunt every time 
y I do anything, and you tell her lots of times that I did 
the things that you did yourself, so’s I’ll get punished. 
She believes you, and I get it good and hard, too. 
But I never squeal on you. You know I don’t.” 

“ You don’t dare to,” proclaimed Chetwynd. “ You 
know what I’d do to you.” 

“ Why don’t you pick on Johnny Metcalf or Roy 
Gray? You’re afraid of ’em. They’re as big as you 
are, and they’d just lick you ^ — ” 

‘‘ I’ll give you a smash in the eye, first thing you 
know,” growled Chetwynd. Still his arm was with- 
held. 

“ Go on and do it ! Go on ! ” cried the reckless Eric. 

You’re a coward, that’s what you are. You won’t 
fight fair. You know I can’t lick you.” 

For two cents, I’d — ” 

‘‘ I’ll fight you with ‘ dornicks ’ at twenty paces,” 
said Eric. 

Chetwynd laughed derisively as he shoved the boy 
away from him. 

“ Next thing you’ll be challenging me to a duel,” he 
guffawed meaningly. 

Eric was quivering with the news that was to be his 
justification. 

‘‘ Aunt Rena said my father was a murderer,” he 
gulped. “ Well, it was a lie.” 

Chetwynd stared. 

I’m going to tell her you called her a liar,” he said. 
‘‘ Then you’ll catch helV* 


PART OF THE TRUTH COMES OUT 29 


‘‘ Oh, if Uncle Horace heard you use that word,” 
cried Eric, forgetting his purpose in the delight of 
anticipation. “ He’d tan you, — gee, but he’d tan you.” 

I’d show him if he tried it,” blustered Chetwynd. 
“ I won’t let any man lick me, I don’t care who he is.” 

Eric returned to his original attack. ‘‘ I don’t care 
if you do tell Aunt Rena. She knows it ain’t true. 
He killed his man in a duel, a fair and square duel. 
It was according to the code, all good and proper. 
She has no business saying it was a murder.” 

“ Well, it was murder,” cried Chetwynd angrily. 
“ You don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Eric went on, rashly. ‘‘ I’d like to see what your 
father’d do if he had to fight a duel. He’d run, he’d 
back out. He wouldn’t stand up to anybody with 
pistols. My father was a brave man. He met his 
man and — ” 

“ Met him ? ” sneered Chetwynd, catching his breath. 

Yes, he did ! He met him in the dark and he shot him 
in the back. That’s the kind of a man he was — and, 
darn you, that’s just the kind of a man you’ll be. 
Everybody says so. My father says it’s in the blood.” 

It’s a lie ! It’s a lie ! ” screamed Eric. 

Chetwynd threw discretion to the winds. He had 
been waiting for the opportunity to hurt this proud 
cousin, whom everyone else liked so well. 

“ And say, while you’re talking about my mother, 
let’s talk about yours. Do you know what she was.^ 
Say, do you.^ Do you know what she did.'* She was a 
bad woman. She was a woman like — well, you know 
what French Fanny is down in Fourth street, don’t 
you.?* She keeps a house of ill-fame. Nobody speaks 
to her, do they.^ Ain’t every girl in town warned 
against being the kind of woman she is.^ Well, Aunt 


^0 MARY MIDTHORNE 

Mary was like French Fanny. She was a prostitute. 
She—” 

Eric was upon him like a wildcat, pummelling, 
scratching and kicking. The attack was so sudden that 
the older boy fell back before it, shouting in mingled 
rage and dismay. The smaller boy, blinded by fury, 
struck wildly and without much effect, but Chetwynd 
would have fled from his attack if it had been possible. 
The trellis barred the way to escape. He was com- 
pelled to stand and defend. Fortune favoured him in 
an unexpected manner. Eric stumbled and fell to his 
knees. Before he could recover, the larger boy was 
upon him, bearing him to the ground. 

Despite his most valiant efforts, Eric could not 
throw him off. He was forced to endure a vicious 
pummelling. His nose, his lips and an ear were soon 
bleeding. Tears of rage and chagrin ran down his 
cheeks. He was powerless, but his cousin was relent- 
less. 

Between blows, Chetwynd ground out the bitterest 
taunts he could invent. There was nothing too vile 
for him to apply to the father and the mother of his 
helpless victim. 

“ That’s what she was ! ” he kept on repeating. 

And that’s what your sister will be, too. She’ll go 
to the devil, just as Aunt Mary did. Shut your mouth, 
blame you! There! That’ll shut it, I guess. And 
you’ll be as dirty low as your father was, too. Every- 
body says so. They’re just waiting to see when it 
crops out. I’ve heard ’em say so. They pray for you. 
Did you know that.? They pray for you and Mary. 
They have Mr. Presbrey pray for you, too. He does 
it every Sunday. But you’ll both go to the gutter. 
Prayers won’t help, you can bet on that. You’re go- 


PART OF THE TRUTH COMES OUT 31 


ing to shoot somebody in the back some day and Mary’s- 
going to be a — Ouch ! Oh, you will, will you ? Take 
that, and that! I guess father ought to know. He’s 
your mother’s brother. If he hasn’t a good word for 
her, I’d like to know who has. But what does he say 
about her? Mother tells me all about it. She don't 
lie. She tells the truth.” 

He would have gone on until exhausted, perhaps,^ 
had not intervention occurred to release the panting, 
beaten boy. Little Mary had been attracted by sounds 
of the conflict. A glance had shown her the situation. 
She ran screaming to the house, alarming her aunt. 
Mrs. Blagden lost no time in going to the rescue of her 
son I 

She separated them and dragged Eric to his feet, 
shaking him violently by the collar. Then she led him 
by the ear to the house, haranguing him every step of 
the way, while Chetwynd followed close behind bawling 
out triumphantly that Eric had called her a liar, and a 
thief, and a bad woman. 

The victim was thrust unceremoniously into a dark 
closet, without being allowed to utter a word in his own 
defence. 

“ Your uncle shall attend to you when he comes 
home from the bank, young man,” said Aunt Rena as 
she locked the door. Then she went downstairs and 
made the exasperating mistake of asking Chetwynd how 
badly the little ruflian had injured him. Her son flung 
himself from the room, much to her dismay. If she had 
been listening closely, she might have heard herself al- 
luded to as a “ darned old fool ” by her precious off- 
spring. 

For three bleak, unhappy hours the small boy who is 
to become the hero of this narrative, remained in the 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


darkened, windowless closet, from which there was no 
escape. He chafed for a long time under the rank in- 
justice that put him there. His little heart was full of 
the bitterest hatred for these unfair inquisitors ; his soul 
writhed in an agony of shame and humiliation, out of 
which sprung the ever-recurring hope that he might 
die there in his prison, if only to make his aunt feel 
that she had been the cause of his death. He was not 
old enough to be a philosopher; he could not see be- 
yond the present indignity. There was no hope ahead, 
so far as he could see. His whole life seemed cramped 
and squeezed into this narrow, cruel hour or two of 
despair. He was crushed, but there was a dogged fury 
in his soul that would not be conquered. Chetwynd 
had reviled his mother. He could not get over that. 
He could not at once grasp the full force of the charges 
brought against her, but there was no doubt in his 
mind that French Fanny was the lowest of all God’s 
creatures. To compare his dear, pretty mother to that 
dreadful woman was the ugliest thought that could come 
into his mind. And yet Chetwynd had said she was as 
bad as French Fanny. And he had said, too, that 
little Mary would grow up to be the same kind of 
woman. The poor boy threw himself on the floor of 
his cell, and wept bitter tears, sobbing himself into a 
slumber from which he was aroused by the faint sound 
of tapping at his door. 

The scared, timid voice of his little sister came to 
him through the keyhole. He commanded her to go 
away, to leave him alone to die. Then they would all 
be sorry. Besides, he added, quick to recognise a peril 
that might befall her, she would get a good scolding or 
worse if their aunt caught her communicating with 
him. The little girl stood her ground for a few mo- 


PART OF THE TRUTH COMES OUT S3 


ments and then went away. He was better for her 
visit, however. He was not alone in the world and 
friendless, after all. Mary was his, and he belonged to 
her. He would live for her that he might in the end 
die for her. 

It was then that his volatile, imaginative brain began 
to build romance out of his predicament. He imagined 
himself confined in a dungeon by unscrupulous con- 
spiratorsi from whose clutches only the most heroic 
actions, the most glorious stratagems would serve to 
release him. In the midst of these exalted reflections, 
his aunt came to the door and unlocked it, bidding him 
to come forth to his supper. It was not a romantic 
way out of his difficulties, but it was a pleasing sum- 
mons, after all. His vengeance could wait — till after 
supper, at least. 

Mrs. Blagden uttered a short gasp of dismay on 
catching a glimpse of his dirty, blood-stained face. 

“ Go and wash your face at once,” she commanded. 
‘‘ You are a perfect fright. Why can’t you keep your- 
self clean like Chetwynd.^^ Go at once and get that 
horrid blood off your face! Not a mouthful do you get 
until you are perfectly clean. Brush your clothes, 
too. Don’t let your uncle see you looking like this. 
He would be shocked.” 

Here was fresh indignity, a new injustice. The boy 
looked squarely into his aunt’s eyes for a moment, and 
she must have felt the unspoken reproach and amaze- 
ment in his glance. 

“ I don’t want any supper,” said Eric surlily. 

“ Wash your face, do you hear me? Your uncle will 
attend to you later on. My goodness, to think that a 
child as young as you are should have it in his heart 
to shed blood, wantonly, cruelly, as you have done 1 ” 


34 MARY MIDTHORNE 

Eric flared up. Oh, it’s not Chetty’s blood. It’s 
all my own.” 

“ Your own.^ Why, you little rascal, you know you 
cut Chetwynd with your knife. He says so. There’s 
a horrid cut on one of his legs. Where is your knife? 
Give it to me at once ! Heaven knows what we are to do 
^ with you. You will kill somebody, mark my words.” 

To her surprise, Eric indulged in a broad, ecstatic 
grin. He was gratified to learn that one of his kicks 
had brought the blood from Chetwynd’s lean shin. 

You wicked thing ! ” cried his aunt, aghast in the 
face of what she was pleased to regard as ^malevolent 
glee. 

“ He lied. Aunt Rena, if he said I pulled a knife on 
him,” cried the boy hotly. “ I never — ” 

“ Chetwynd does not lie,” she interrupted. Make 
yourself presentable at once. Pastor Presbrey will 
speak to you after supper. Heaven knows that some- 
thing must be done.” 

He and little Mary ate their supper in the pantry, 
while Chetwynd, nursing a throbbing shin-bone, sat 
beside the minister at table and talked of his afternoon 
^ with Virgil. 

To illustrate the contrariness of human nature, the 
scion of the house of Blagden, down in his heart, en- 
vied his late adversary the joy of eating in the butler’s 
pantry, while he was obliged to sit up and be agreeable 
to the sanctimonious toady in the long frock coat and 
immaculate cravat. That is to say, he envied him until 
the conversation of his elders drifted to the recalci- 
trant lad in the pantry. Then he was glad that he was 
there. Moreover, when the meal was over, and the 
clerical appetite satisfied for the time being, he an- 
nounced to his mother that he was going to stay in the 


PART OF THE TRUTH COMES OUT 3^ 


library and hear what Mr. Presbrey and his father had 
to say to Eric and Mary when they were haled up before 
them for the judgment that was to be passed upon them 
before they went to bed that night. 


CHAPTER III 


GAlili BROTH 

The Reverend Mr. Presbrey will bear watching as this 
tale progresses. Not in the common, accepted sense of 
the term, perhaps, — not as you might keep your eye on 
a chap who has been suspected of taking a purse, or 
even a drink, — but for the sake of a certain propin- 
quity he creates for himself in relation to the affairs of 
other people. 

It has been said that he was a very good man. It 
is quite true. He had no children. If you can im- 
agine a man so good as all that, you may reach some 
sort of a conclusion as to Mr. Presbrey’s spirituality. As 
a rule, ministers of the gospel surround themselves with 
more children than their means would appear to encour- 
age, but there is so much satisfaction in having them 
that even impoverished clergymen can afford to be 
prodigal. They call them products of God and set 
them down in their profit and loss column as riches that 
gold cannot replace. You’ve got to give credit to the 
clergy for this, even though you don’t consider it worth 
while to go to church and listen to their views on the 
rearing of your own offspring. 

Mr. Presbrey rarely came closer to the present than 
the reign of Nebuchadnezzar, unless it were to tell his 
listeners that the drink evil is still a menace to society, 
and that hell, which seems to be of all times, is a very 
dreadful place. To these, and other profundities of 
quaint ori^nality, he owed his exalted position in 
Corinth. 


36 


GALL BROTH 


3T 

He looked with horror upon the cheery priests at St* 
Ann’s Catholic church down the street: they took hfe 
too cas|teilly, and they smoked cigars, said he to him- 
self. He drew his sombre skirts clear of the shouting 
Methodist who preached in the First M. E. church, and 
disdained the worthy gentleman who held forth in the 
Baptist sanctuary — where the steeple-bell was cracked 
because it failed to come through the Revolutionary 
iWar unscathed. The rather progressive pastor of the 
Second Congregational Church, a youngish man from 
the middle west, came in for no end of pity and com- 
miseration. As for the Free Methodists, the Unitarians 
and the Episcopalians, they were beneath his notice* 
There was but one God, his God; but one church, his 
church ; but one creed, his creed. Thank God, there are 
but few Presbreys left in the land! 

I make no doubt he would have resented the imputa- 
tion that he was narrow, that he was remote. He took 
a very broad view of himself, and he was satisfied with 
what he saw. 

His wife was satisfied, as well, which was consoling* 
Next to his Maker, Mr. Presbrey worshipped his wife; 
next to Mr. Presbrey, she made room for God. It was 
what you might have called a close corporation, the* 
Presbreys and God. 

Just outside the little private fold were the Blag- 
dens. After them, the congregation of the First Con- 
gregational Church of Corinth. 

It already has been said that Mr. Presbrey employed 
himself in the pleasant occupation of developing other 
people’s children. His wife, it may be added, also took 
a hand in such affairs. She had never cared to have 
children of her own. This, perhaps, was a fortunate 
thing for Mr. Presbrey’s peace of mind. It would have 


88 MARY MIDTHORNE 

been most distressing, even dismaying, if she had wanted 
them. 

Again, I repeat, Mr. Presbrey was a very good man. 
He will bear watching. 

He was tall, spare, fifty and ascetic. You could not 
have mistaken his long, thin, aquiline nose for the prop- 
erty of any but a saintly man, nor could his closely 
cropped side whiskers, extending below the lobes of the 
ears, have belonged to a less exalted personality. Some- 
times we confuse our own less careful ministers with 
overly importunate lightning-rod agents or insurance so- 
licitors, — once in awhile, to our sorrow, with book 
agents, — but we would not have taken Mr. Presbrey, 
by any conceivable chance, for anything but what he 
was. And yet, despite an outward appearance of rigid 
self-government and exactitude, he possessed a certain 
form of weakness that is apparent in most of us, no 
matter how strong-minded we pretend to be. He was 
not above listening to the advice and counsel of his wife. 
I betray a secret, of course, when I say that Mr. Pres- 
brey first took his burthens to his wife, and then to God. 
I will not go so far as to say that if she had pooh- 
poohed them as trifles, he would not have Included them 
^ in his prayers, but it is quite certain that he would have 
gone about it perfunctorily. 

If Mrs. Presbrey had searched the world over for a 
mate, she could not have succeeded in finding one more 
compatible than he. I do not pretend to know how far 
afield she searched, nor how long it was before she came 
to him, but it is reasonable to suspect that she had made 
some endeavour. She was forty when he married her 
and she had led the Bible class in his Sunday school 
for at least ten years before the miracle came to pass. 


GALL BROTH 


39 ^ 


Corinth was her birthplace, so, I fancy, she did not find 
it necessary to venture far from home. 

She believed in the efficacy of prayer. That is why 
she received the belated blessing in the shape of Mr.. 
Presbrey. For fifteen long years she had prayed with 
him — and for him. God’s blessing, as well as his 
wrath, is often delayed beyond all understanding, but 
if we accept Mrs. Presbrey’s spiritual persistency as an 
example, our minds may be at rest as to the virtue of 
the admonition : “ Ask and ye shall receive.” 

It is only natural to suppose that the excellent Pres- 
breys had gone into the problem of the Midthome chil- 
dren quite thoroughly before presenting themselves at 
the house on the hill, some fifteen minutes prior to the 
Blagdens’ dinner hour. Mrs. Presbrey made it a point 
never to be late for anything. She avoided all possi- 
bility of such an occurrence by being punctually ahead 
of time. So, when they sat down to table at seven 
o’clock, they were prepared to give all the Christian ad- 
vice that the occasion and its exigencies demanded. 

Mr. Presbrey looked askance at Chetwynd while the 
dessert was being served. It was what is commonly 
called “ float.” Mrs. Blagden, intercepting the look, 
directed a questioning glance at her husband. Horace 
looked at the crystal chandelier for a moment, and then 
said; 

“ Run along now, Chetwynd.” 

“ I want some more float,” said Chetwynd, who knew 
they were holding something back. 

Mrs. Presbrey sighed. Then she asked, casually 
enough : 

“ Have your sister’s children gone to bed? ” 

Horace cringed. He always cringed when they were 


40 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


spoken of as his sister’s children. It never occurred to 
him that it would have sounded awkward if one asked: 
‘‘ How are Mr. Midthome’s children.? ” or “ Are the late 
Mr. Midthorne’s children coming to Sunday school.? ” 
The worst of it was, he could not deny that they were 
his sister’s children. 

“ No, Mrs. Presbrey, they have not,” he replied. He 
pondered for a moment. Then he passed his smooth, 
white hand across his chin. “ That reminds me, I want 
to speak to you about them, Presbrey. The time has 
come — er — ahem! — when it seems advisable for us 
to acquaint them with the unhappy conditions surround- 
ing their babyhood. They should not be allowed to 
grow up in utter ignorance of — er — ahem 1 — certain 
hereditary influences. They must be prepared, if it is 
in our power to prepare them, for the perils of that 
miserable heritage. We do not want them to go on 
unconsciously developing the — the — er, — what shall 
I say? — the faults of their parents.” 

Mr. Presbrey’s blue eyes lighted up. 

“ My prayers are never complete without an earnest 
plea in behalf of those dear children,” he said. If he 
had taken the trouble to look, he might have seen a cer- 
tain tightening of the lines about Mrs. Blagden’s lips. 
Mrs. Presbrey, more observing, saw the change in her 
hostess’s expression. She hastened to apologise for the 
careless use of the adjective. 

“ All children are dears,” she explained. 

“ ‘ Suffer httle children to come unto me ’ ” — began 
Mr. Presbrey absently. 

Chetwynd snickered. A warm red surged to the 
speaker’s cheeks and brow, causing his wife to start with 
amazement. She had not known there was so much 
blood in him. 


GALL BROTH 


41 


“ What we should do,” remarked Horace blandly, “ is 
this: we should put the situation clearly to Eric. He 
is twelve years old and bright as a dollar. No one can 
gainsay that. I daresay Mary would not be sufficiently 
impressed at her present age. Perhaps we’d better 
wait in her case — ” 

“ I thought you wanted to save both of ’em,” put in 
Chetwynd rashly. 

“ Chetwynd ! ” exclaimed his father and mother in 
unison. 

“ There is a saying,” added Mr. Presbrey, in whom 
resentment still rankled, “ that children should be seen, 
or something to that effect.” It was a very daring re- 
mark for him to make. 

“ Well, you have to take chances on hearing them if 
you suffer ’em to come unto you,” said Chetwynd, secure 
in his domain. 

“ Chetwynd is so remarkably quickwitted, don’t you 
think so, Mrs. Presbrey ” cried his mother admiringly. 
“ That was a very smart rejoinder.” 

“ Very,” said Mrs. Presbrey, with unction. 

“ Chetwynd, you will oblige me by holding your 
tongue,” said Mr. Blagden quite severely. When he 
spoke in that tone of voice, Chetwynd always subsided. ' 
“ As I was saying, Presbrey, we may as well defer in 
the case of Mary, though God knows I do not want to 
run the risk of being too late.” 

I fancy no harm can come to her for some years. 
She is nine, I believe,” said Mr. Presbrey. 

“ Nine,” said Mr. Blagden, “ last April.” 

“ Of course, the seed is there,” mused the other. 

“ Of course,” agreed three voices, almost in unison. 

“ Eric is developing very marked traits that — er;, 
ahem! — You might say they are quite ominous,” said 


42 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


Mr. Blagden. “ He has a temper and a tendency to let 
go of it without any effort at self-restraint. I regret 
to say that he has formed the habit of throwing stones 
at Chetwynd, — frequently, so my boy informs me, when 
his back is turned. That trait, believe me, is distinctly; 
hereditary. It isn’t necessary. I’m sure, for me to go 
l into the private history of his father. Suffice it to say, 
he was a man of violent temper, with a disposition to — ■ 
er, ahem! — to shed blood. I regret to add that the 
children’s mother also took a lawless view of the pro- 
prieties. It is our duty to paint the picture as strongly, 
as vigorously as we can for Eric’s sake. He must be 
made to see the handwriting on the wall. He must be 
warned in time. We may be able to check or divert the 
evil tendencies that accrue to him by nature.” 

“ In other words,” said Mr. Presbrey, “ we must ob- 
struct Nature. I quite understand, my dear Mr. Blag- 
den.” 

“ Precisely,” agreed Horace. 

“ We should pray for the poor boy,” began Mrs., 
Presbrey. Mr. Blagden held up his hand and shook his 
head, with a deprecatory smile. He was still vaguely 
<;onscious of a remote period in his life when his ad- 
miration for Julia Crowden rose almost to the impor- 
tance of love. That was when he was fifteen and she 
was twenty -five. He was now forty-five, and she had 
been the wife of his pastor for fifteen years. He never 
looked at her without experiencing a sort of speculative 
wonder, very faint, very vague and plainly reminiscent. 

“ The time for prayer has passed,” he protested. 
“ We must use a little common sense now.” He has- 
tened to set himself aright : “ Do not misunderstand 

me, Julia. So many of my prayers have been answered 
that I, least of all, should deny the efficacy of prayer. 


GALL BROTH 


43 


I will say, however, that my prayers have always been 
supplemented by a certain amount of purely human 
endeavour.” He was unconsciously humorous, despite 
his serious mien. “What I mean is this: We can’t 
help Eric with prayer unless we are able to secure his 
co-operation. We can’t obtain that without first tell- 
ing him what it’s all about. Do you get my mean- 
ing ” 

“ It is perfectly clear,” said Mr. Presbrey, folding 
his napkin with grave precision, so that the initial “ B ” 
remained in view. 

“ Perfectly,” his wife agreed. 

“What would you suggest.?” asked Mr. Blagden. 

Mr. Presbrey was tactful. He levelled his gaze upon 
a huge Delft platter on the plate rail above Mrs. Blag- 
den’s prim coiffure, and pondered. He pondered long 
enough to permit his diplomacy to bring results. The 
eflPort was successful. Mr. Blagden offered the sugges- 
tion. 

“ I suppose we’d better have Eric in the library at 
once. Ring for Martha, please.” He directed the re- 
quest to his wife, who at once jangled the little silver 
hand-bell that stood beside the Warsaw candlestick. 

Martha,” said he, when the ancient domestic appeared 
in the door, “ send Master Eric to the library at once.” 

So far as Horace was concerned, the conference was 
over. It was now time for action. 

“ Eric’s gone to bed, sir,” announced Martha. 

“ It isn’t his bedtime,” said Mrs. Blagden sternly. 

“ No, ma’am, but he said his face was hurting him' 
so.” 

“His face.?” demanded Mr. Blagden, who had not 
heard of the encounter in the arbour. 

“ He said he fell off the fence and bruised it, sir,’* 


44 MARY MIDTHORNE 

said Martha, who would not have repeated a lie for the 
world. 

Mrs. Blagden cleared her throat uneasily. Her first 
impulse was to remain silent, but, on second thoughts, 
she saw a chance to discredit the boy in the eyes of his 
uncle. She knew that Horace detested a lie. 

“ Fell off the fence ’’ she exclaimed. “ He did noth- , 
ing of the sort. He attacked Chetwynd, who was com- 
pelled to thrash him soundly. Now, why should he tell 
such a lie as that ? ” 

Mr. Blagden possessed a sense of justice. ‘‘ You are 
much larger than Eric, Chetwynd,” he said, turning a 
bit red in the face. 

“ He threw a brick at me. I punched him in self- 
defence,” said his son, after a scowl of amazement at his 
mother. 

“ You may go, Martha,” said Mr. Blagden, for once 
a bit confounded. “ But stay. If he isn’t asleep, tell 
him to get up and come down at once.” 

“ Pound hard on the door before you ask him if he’s 
asleep,” advised the resourceful Chetwynd. 

‘‘ Let us retire to the library,” said his father, arising. 

“ Say,” said Chetwynd, “ if you think Mary is too 
young to know things, you’re off your base.” 

“ My son. I’m sorry to hear you use such an expres- 
sion. Off my base.^ What do you mean, sir.? ” 

“ She’s onto things all right,” announced the boy 
eagerly. “ She knows a good deal more than you think 
she does. You ought to hear some of the words she 
uses.” 

‘‘ Incredible,” cried Mr. Presbrey, plainly distressed, 
and without knowing what words she had used. 

Horace studied the figures in the carpet for a mo- 


GALL BROTH 


45 


ment. “You may ask — ” but Martha had departed. 
“ Ring the bell, please, my dear.” 

The bell was jangled once more and Martha came 
into the room, somewhat out of breath. 

“ I hadn’t got half way upstairs, ma’am,” she an- 
nounced rather sharply. 

“ You may bring Mary downstairs also, Martha,” 
ordered Mrs. Blagden. 

Fifteen minutes passed before Eric and Mary, very 
wide awake and curious, presented themselves in the li- 
brary. Eric, while dressing, had given himself up to 
reckless speculation as to the cause of the summons. 
On the way downstairs, he confided his conclusions to 
the mystified Mary. His eyes glittered with the joyous 
hope that lurked in his soul. 

“ I’ll bet they’re going to send us off to boarding 
school,” he whispered. She gave an ecstatic gasp, and 
clutched at his arm. 

“ Oh, Eric, do you really think so ? Oh, it can’t be 
true ! ” 

“ Well, it’s something,” he argued excitedly. “ It 
must be important, or they wouldn’t be getting us out 
’ of bed.” 

' Mary was of faint heart. She pulled a wry face. 
And Mary’s dark, flower-like face was of an exquisite 
modelling that could not be wrought into anything un- 
pleasant to the eye, no matter how hard she tried. Her 
very worst “ faces ” were fascinating. You would have 
loved every inch of her, believe me. 

“ ’Tisn’t boarding-school,” she declared. “ That 
could wait till breakfast-time. It’s something else. 
Mr. Presbrey’s still there.” 

Eric pondered. “ I’ll bet it’s about you and me skip-‘ 


46 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


ping Sunday school two weeks ago, — the day of the 
fire down in Front street.” 

“ Maybe someone’s left us a fortune,” whispered 
she, just as he was about to turn the knob of the library 
door. “ Oh, my ! What if someone has ! ” 

Eric’s “ Gee ” was a great potential declaration of 
resolve. 

The Blagden library, like all other rooms in the big 
house, was stiffly respectable. The rows of books, in 
the original cloth bindings, covered the wall space on 
four sides of the room from floor to ceiling. The glassi 
door of each section was locked, and Mr. Blagden car- 
ried the key in his trousers’ pocket. The only portion 
of the volumes accessible to the reader was the title 
stamped on the back. Dust was not the only thing that 
was denied access to the shelves. Most of the volumes 
were first editions and uncut, and they possessed a value 
that was not to be disturbed by the ordinary mind. 
Sometimes Mr. Blagden himself looked into them, but 
to no one else was this privilege extended. There was 
no book there, you may be sure, that the most innocent 
boy or girl could not have read without contamination. 
They were a particularly clean lot of items,” to use 
the professional term. 

Once, by mistake, an English edition, in twelve vol- 
umes, of the Memoirs of Casanova joined the solemn 
and sedate company, quite without discussion for the 
simple reason that the master of the house had taken 
the books in part payment of a debt incurred by a real 
literary chap, who had been in college with him. The 
erotic Casanova remained there for many months, 
touching hides with a carefully bound set of Ruskin, 
before someone who knew came along to enlighten Mr. 
Blagden as to their salaciousness. The owner, aghast. 


GALL BROTH 


47 , 

would have cast the offending volumes into the fire had 
not his friend advised him that a good set of Casanova 
would bring something like a hundred dollars if the 

right party ” came along. So Mr. Blagden kept 
them a year longer, waiting for the right party to 
come along. He sold them at last to the cashier in his 
bank, and ever afterward looked upon that gentleman 
as a person of perverted taste and not to be wholly 
trusted. 

But I am diverging. The two Midthomes, on enter- 
ing the room, paused irresolute just inside the door, 
gazing in no little dismay upon the four stem-visaged 
persons ranged about the long library table. Chet- 
wynd had partially effaced himself by sitting upon the 
small of his back in the great arm chair in the corner. 

“ Close the door, Eric,” said his uncle. “ Now, come 
here. You, too, Mary.” The children approached 
timorously. “ Let me see your lip. You tumbled off 
the fence? ” 

Eric fell into the trap. “ Yes, sir,” he replied. 

There was a moment of silence, while four pairs of 
condemning eyes transfixed the boy. 

“ Eric, it is wrong to tell fibs,” said his aunt, in hurt 
tones. 

The boy saw his mistake. He felt a hot, furious 
wave of humiliation shoot by his throat and up to his 
brain. 

“ It isn’t a fib,” he cried stoutly. “ I did fall off the 
fence last week.” 

“ You were attempting to deceive us,” declared his 
uncle, fastening his cold grey eyes upon the boy’s face. 

It is quite as bad as lying. Why could you not 
have told the truth, and said that Chetwynd struck 
you? ” 


48 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


“ Because I’d sooner lie than tell tales,” declared Eric 
boldly. “ My mother used to punish me if I came in 
crying and told her some boy had hit me and father 
always said I ought to be a man and fight back instead 
of—” 

“ That will do, that will do,” interrupted Mr. Blag- 
den in some haste. Mr. Presbrey coughed, with a deli- , 
cate regard for the feelings of his unfortunate friends. 

Poor boy, poor boy,” he sighed. “ As the twig is 
bent ! ” 

« Er — ahem! Your aunt and I have come to the 
conclusion, children, that it is high time you were 
brought to a realisation of what is before you. It is 
not a pleasant task, my lad, — not a pleasant task.” 

Far from it,” said Mr. Presbrey. 

“ Sit here on the sofa, both of you. That’s right. 
Now, please do not interrupt — er — ahem! Remem- 
ber it is for your own good.” 

The children sat rigidly upright on the edge of the 
old damask sofa, facing the four persons who looked 
across the long table at them. The lights in the chan- 
delier were burning. Mary glanced up at them with a 
vague sense of wonder. She had never seen them lighted ' 
before. It was always the kerosene student’s lamp on 
the end of the table, beside Mr. Blagden’s chair. There 
was a marked absence of the dim religious light in the 
room to-night. 

“ Don’t cross your legs, Mary,” said her aunt se- 
verely. “ How many times have I told you — ” 

“ Yes, ma’am,” gasped Mary, uncrossing her plump 
little legs in a hurry, and sending her quaint, apolo- 
getic smile up against the frozen faces opposite. The 
chill was transferred to her blithe little heart. 

“ Mr. Presbrey wants very much to talk to both of 


GALL BROTH 


49 


you,” announced Mr. Blagden. “ I am sure you will 
receive what he is about to say in good grace and hu- 
mility. You know that he, as well as your aunt and I, 
has the welfare of your souls at heart. He is about to 
tell you of your father, and the dreadful story of your 
unhappy mother. Now, please pay strict attention to 
his words. You will find comfort and solace in the 
promises he will hold out to you afterwards. There is 
a great light beyond the breakers — er — ahem ! — 
over which you must be cast before the darkness of the 
night is lifted for you. He will, with God’s blessing, 
direct you into paths which lead away from the pits 
into which your unfortunate parents drifted in their 
wilfulness. Will you be good enough, Mr. Presbrey, 
to — er — ahem!” He broke off the injunction — it 
was hardly a request — in the middle, and settled back 
with complacent confidence in his pastor’s intuition. 

The worthy pastor cleared his throat, and began. 
With his uncle’s first words, Eric felt a sickening, hor- 
rid lump arising in his throat. Something seemed to 
tighten about his whole body, holding him in a grip so 
relentless that he could scarcely breathe. He sat there, 
staring wide-eyed and helpless, at the lean face of the 
man who was to say things he knew would hurt as noth- 
ing had ever hurt him before. Twice he swallowed hard, 
but the lump was there to stay. He heard the quick, 
bewildered catch in Mary’s breathing. Without look- 
ing, he knew that her lip trembled. He knew that they 
were about to attack his father. He knew, instinctively, 
what charge would be brought against him, — and he 
had loved him so dearly, so fiercely. Words struggled 
to his lips. 

“ It was a duel,” he managed to say, in a pitiful ef- 
fort to anticipate pain. 


50 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


Mr. Presbrey hesitated. He wondered who had given 
this version to the boy. 

“ Alas, my boy, you have been misinformed — er — 
I should say you have misconstrued the words of your 
informant,” he said uneasily. It suddenly occurred to 
him that either Mr. or Mrs. Blagden, in a moment of 
weakness, might have told the boy that there was a duel ; 
in that event, it was necessary for him to proceed with 
tact — with caution. 

“ Who told you that, Eric ? ” demanded his uncle and 
aunt simultaneously. 

“ It doesn’t matter,” supplied Mr. Presbrey indul- 
gently, quite at ease once more. “ It may have been 
that as a very small child he heard something to that 
effect, and his memory has retained it after a fashion. 
Quite likely, er — quite natural. Very frequently a 
word spoken in the presence of the merest babe finds 
lodgment in its immature brain and makes itself mani- 
fest strangely in after years. I knew of an instance — ” 

“ Don’t keep the child waiting, Arthur dear,” put in 
his wife. “ He seems so eager to hear about his 
father.” She meant to be kind, I’ve no doubt. 

Therefore, Mr. Presbrey, with the permission of the/ 
erring woman’s brother, plunged into the history of I 
Philip Midthorne and Mary Blagden, ordering his lan- 
guage in its simplest form so that his small listeners 
might read as they ran, so to speak. The whole ugly 
business, from start to finish, was laid bare for their 
benefit, — and their future glorification. The helpless 
little Midthornes heard him through to the end, sitting 
immovable on the edge of the sofa, never once lifting 
their dry, half-closed eyes from the carpet at their feet. 
They heard the beings they loved best of all in the 


GALL BROTH 


51 


^orld, albeit they had known them so briefly, charac- 
terised as creatures of iniquity, their sorry misdeeds 
held up to them as warning examples, very much as the 
hangman of old left his victim swinging by the road- 
side so that all who contemplated evil-doing might see 
and be guided into paths of rectitude. 

I will not attempt to follow the good Mr. Presbrey’s 
preamble, nor to repeat his saintly interruptions of him- 
self that he might point out lights among the shadows 
when occasions suggested themselves. He dwelt with 
particular intensity on the devils that entered into and 
warped the nature of Philip Midthorne, transforming 
him into a common murderer when he might have been 
an honour and a credit to his people, — especially to 
those innocent. God-fearing connections in Corinth. At 
some length, he dwelt with the impulses that conquered 
the man, and pointed out to Eric the signs of them al- 
ready appearing in him. Violent temper, lack of self- 
restraint, the desire to inflict bodily injury, ungovern- 
able spells of fury, sullenness, secretiveness, — and so on 
and so on — against all of which he must steel himself 
unless he was determined to follow in the footsteps of his 
ill-fated father. 

‘‘ You do not want to be a murderer, Eric,” he said 
at one stage, bending his luminous blue eyes on the 
bent, downcast face of the boy. “ You do not want to 
come to an end like his, my boy, — do you.^^ Ah, I am 
sure you do not. And yet, — ah, me ! I shudder to 
think of what may come to pass if you do not safe- 
guard yourself. ‘ Come unto me and I will give you 
rest.’ Let me be your guide, my boy; let me lead you 
into sweet, gentle fields where strife and bitterness are 
not to be encountered.” 


52 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


Mrs. Presbrey, carried away by the earnestness of her 
husband, cried out : “ Oh, Eric, think twice, — always 

think twice ! ” 

“ Think of the great, good God, who — ” began Mr. 
Presbrey, but Eric, who, all through the blighting re- 
cital had been trying to concentrate his mind on the ad- 
monition: ‘‘Honour thy father and thy mother that 
thy days may be long in the land,” could control him- 
self no longer. 

“ I wish I could kill you, — and you! ” he cried from 
the bottom of his harassed soul, lifting his blood-red face 
to glare first at one and then at the other Presbrey. 

There was a full minute of utter silence. 

We must do' Chetwynd justice. He was secretly 
wishing that, by some chance, Eric might have a fair- 
sized rock in his pocket, and also the coolness to heave it 
accurately. 

“ There, there ! ” murmured Mr. Presbrey, rather 
helplessly. This benign adjuration, with its expressive 
hand accompaniment, was meant for the distracted boy, 
but somehow it went farther. It was the means of 
checking the caustic reprimand that rose to the lips of 
each of the elder Blagdens, as well as putting his scan- 
dalised wife in her proper place before she could utter 
a word — which was something he had never been able 
to do before. “ You must not give way to rage like 
that. You should try to govern, try to conquer the vi- 
cious impulse that is back of such outbursts. I am 
sorry, — very sorry, Eric, — to hear such words from 
your lips. Only ruffians and the besotted of our world 
utter such threats. Compose yourself. You can over- 
come these base thoughts if you will but try. Try, my 
boy, try. I — ” 

“ Amen I ” exclaimed his wife. 


GALL BROTH 


53 


Amen ! ” added Chetwynd from his chair in the 
corner. Mr. Presbrey turned a dark red. He was con- 
scious of ridicule in the boy’s dolorous iteration. 

“ Mr. Blagden, — ” he began warmly. 

“Chetwynd!” thundered the young man’s father. 
“ Leave the room ! ” 

“ What have I done.^ ” whined Chetwynd, thoroughly 
frightened. 

“ Never mind, Mr. Blagden, I beseech you,” cried Mr. 
Presbrey in haste, reconsidering an impulse. “ I am 
sure Chetwynd spoke with sincerity in his heart. Do 
not chide him, I implore.” Mr. Blagden shook his 
finger at Chetwynd, and the incident was closed. But 
in one of the undiscovered recesses of Mr. Presbrey’s 
soul, a small, bitter thing took root, and from it, all un- 
beknownst to him, a most unchristian aversion to Chet- 
wynd was to grow with amazing swiftness. Mr. Pres- 
brey never had hated anyone or anything in all his life. 
But he was destined to know the feeling and to enjoy it. 

He renewed his appeal to the boy on the sofa. You 
would have thought that Eric already stood in the 
shadow of the scaffold, so eloquently did the excellent 
gentleman plead for his regeneration. The boy, after 
his single outburst, shrank within himself, crushed, hu- 
miliated, trembling. Somehow, he knew now that old 
Jabez had lied to him, and that these horrid sentences 
contained the truth. The light went out of his soul, 
the warmth from his heart. A beautiful ideal was 
being shattered as he looked on, and he could offer no 
resistance to the demolition. It was all true. His 
father was a murderer. He had shot down a man with- 
out mercy, without fairness. There was nothing left 
for the boy to build on, nothing that could stand firmly 
enough for him to attach his dreams to — ^ nothing ^ 


545 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


The minister was telling the truth. The minister could 
not lie. Old Jabez had lied. Old Jabez could lie, he 
recalled in a hazy fashion as he tried to prop up his 
hopes by putting the old seaman’s word against that 
of the divine. 

His face was white with the frost that had entered 
his blood. His eyes were burning, his soul was faint. 
Twice, -even thrice, he looked to his uncle and aunt for 
succour, though he knew not why. Something told him 
beforehand that they would not come to his relief, that 
they had no desire to shield him from the truth, — aye, 
that they had brought it about for some inexplicable 
reason of their own. He did not feel the convulsive 
clutching of his sister’s fingers; he was dead to every- 
thing except the steel that was slipping into his heart. 

Once he heard Mrs. Presbrey say, as if from afar: 

Don’t you remember, Eric dear, the man who was 
hanged in Ridgely county last fall.? Think of that! 
Think of that man’s feelings!” 

But he could not think of that man’s feelings. He 
could only think of his own, of his sister’s, of his 
father’s. Why should she ask him to think of that 
man’s feelings? What was that man to him, or to his 
sister? What had he to do with the case? That man 
had only killed his wife. He had not killed a scoundrel, 
as his father had done. 

Come to Christ I Come to Christ I ” droned the 
gentle, persistent voice of the minister, punctuating 
his harangue with the earnest appeal from time to time. 

Out of the maze Eric heard his uncle’s voice: 

“ Do not hesitate on my account, Presbrey. Tell 
them of their mother.” 

In the middle of Mr. Presbrey’s devout castigation of 
Horace Blagden’s protagonistic sister, little Mary 


GALL BROTH 


55 


threw herself on Eric’s shoulder and sobbed as if her 
heart would break. Eric’s trembling voice broke in on 
her sobs, in the feeble effort to comfort her. 

“Don’t cry, Mamie, please don’t! Listen! You 
never can be like that. You’ve got me. I’ll stand by 
you. Nothing can ever happen to you.” Then he 
turned fiercely upon his uncle : “ Why do you let him 

say such things about your sister, Uncle Horace She 
was your sister, my mother was. I’d kill a man, if I 
was a man, if he said such things about my sister!” 
As an after-clap, he added shrilly : “ Even if they 

hung me for it! ” 

But Mr. Blagden retained the unruffled composure 
that made him the great man of Corinth. He felt of 
his watch fob, — mind you, he did not fumble it, — and 
gazed blandly at Mrs. Presbrey, a queer little smile of 
apology on his lips. As much as to say : “ In my own 
house, dear me.” 

“ I won’t listen to any more,” cried Eric, coming to 
his feet and facing them all. “ I shan’t stay here. 
Mary shan’t, either. We’ll go away to-night. I know 
where we can go. I — ” 

“ Eric ! Be quiet ! ” commanded his uncle. “ And 
sit down.” 

“ I don’t care what happens to me,” flared the boy, 
struggling with his tears. “What’s the use.? I’m — • 
I’m fore-ordained, ain’t I.? Ain’t we all fore-ordained.? 
What good is it going to do to pray.? Prayer won’t 
help a fore-ordained boy, will it.? It won’t — ” He 
was plunging recklessly, heedlessly into the deepest cur- 
rents of his creed, inspired by a courage born of 
despair. It is the same spirit that urges on the wretch 
who is courting suicide. Mr. Presbrey cried out in 
horrified accents, checking the bitter flow of words : 


56 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


“Stop! You do not know what you are saying. 
Listen to me, my boy.” 

“ I won’t listen 1 I’m forever damned, so what’s the 
use. Let me out of here 1 Come on, Mary ! ” 

He made a rush for the door, dragging his sister 
after him. Mr. Blagden leaped up from his chair and 
put himself between them and the door. 

“ You go back there at once, sir, and beg Mr. Pres- 
brey’s pardon,” he hissed, grasping the boy by the 
arm. “What will he think of you.? Where are your 
manners ? ” 

Eric whirled and threw himself into a chair, burying 
his face in his arms, a great wail of anguish escaping 
his lips, to be followed an instant later by a rush o^ 
sobs. 

Mr. Presbrey sprang to his feet, an exalted look ini 
his face. He lifted his eyes and clasped his hands in 
the ecstasy of spiritual triumph. 

“ Glory be to God ! Praise the Lord I ” he cried in 
thrilling tones. “ He is saved 1 He has seen the light ! 
The spirit of evil is broken ! Praise the Lord 1 Let us 
give thanks for the sign! Let us bow our heads in 
prayer.” 

He fell upon his knees beside the quivering boy and 
lifted his voice in prayer. The others stood with bowed 
heads, even Chetwynd being carried away by the rush of 
the conquerors. Little Mary, clinging to the door- 
knob, stood transfixed, gazing in helpless astonishment 
at the picture. 

Later, the two children were led to their room by 
Mrs. Blagden herself, attended by the soulful Mrs. 
Presbrey. 

“ Go to sleep, you poor dears,” said the former, tears 
of emotion in her voice. “ You will feel better in the 


GALL’ BROTH 


57 


morning. It will all come right in the end. Try to 
believe all that Mr. Presbrey has said to you. He 
knows best. He will be your best friend.” 

Perhaps if Rena Blagden had never come to Corinth 
to live she would have been a different woman, — a gen- 
tler one. 

“ Mr. Presbrey will come to see you in the morning, 
children,” said Mrs. Presbrey. ‘‘ Keep a brave heart 
and put your trust in the Lord. He will give you 
strength.” Then to Mrs. Blagden, as that lady gently 
closed the door on the children : “ Don’t you think 

you’d better lock the door, my dear? ” 


CHAPTER IV 


THE ENTRANCE OF ADAM CARR 

Mr. Presbrey came the next day and for many days 
thereafter with a regularity that deserved something 
more (I was about to say better) than the mere salvation 
of two small souls. Sometimes he got it, and some- 
times he didn’t. It all depended on what Mrs. Blagden 
had in the house. 

In any event, he was sincere in the task unto which 
he had set himself. I ‘am not trying to make Mr. Pres- 
brey out a hypocrite. He was not that. He honestly, 
firmly believed that he was following the dictates of a 
Christian spirit in bedevilling the heart-sick boy with 
his words of advice, and caution, and consolation. At 
least, there was attached to his prerogative all the vir- 
tues to be found in good wool: it wore well and did not 
shine. 

Eric, after the effects of that cruel night had washed 
themselves away in tears, rose manfully to the exi- 
gencies of his position. He turned to Mary, forgetting 
his own troubles in the resolve to lessen hers. She could ^ 
not fail to respond to the strength and earnestness of 
his devotion. Young as she was, she recognised the 
spirit of unselfishness, the real heroism that moved him 
to think first of her, then of himself. She was never to 
forget the first few days following that wretched awak- 
ening. Somehow, it came to her that Eric was a grown 
man and a strong one, with the will and the power to 
stand between her and all adversity, all things cruel and 
unkind. 


58 


THE ENTRANCE OF ADAM CARR 5^ 


Together, they submitted to the importunities of the 
good pastor, enduring with a grace that had all the 
marks of a patient sullenness. They were temporarily 
broken ; they had no power of initiative ; they could not 
even nourish the resentment that strove so hard to grow 
in their ploughed, harrowed hearts. They listened 
numbly to the unceasing repetition of such sentences as 
these, coming not only from the Presbreys, but their 
uncle and aunt as well: 

“It is all for the best, my dears.” 

“ You will thank us some day.” 

“ God is good. He will show you the way.’^ 

“ A contrite heart, etc.” 

“ You must not be allowed to follow in the footsteps 
of your unhappy father, Eric.” 

“We would not be doing our Christian duty if we 
failed to warn you against the impulses that wrecked 
your misguided mother.” 

“ Your uncle knows best, Eric.” 

“ Your aunt knows best, Mary.” 

“ Mr. Presbrey knows best, children.” 

These, and other concomitants of woe. 

Chetwynd’s oft-repeated fling was this, with appro- 
priate variations: 

“ You’re a nice one to talk, you are.” 

The older boy never missed the opportunity to 
grill his wretched victim with scornful allusions to 
“ the Midthorne courage,” “ the Midthorne hon- 
our,” “ the Midthorne virtue,” “ the Midthorne pros- 
pects.” 

Eric’s half-hour with that unfortunate, though kindly 
prevaricator, Jabez Carr, was one that the old man was 
not likely to forget, even in his years of failing mem- 
ory. The boy burst in upon him while the ignoble 


60 


MARY MICTHORNE 


wounds in his heart were still festering, and his pathetic 
arraignment of the old seaman was the very essence of 
gall. He did not blame, but rather thanked the old 
man for his deliberate deception, and yet there was that 
in his words which compelled Jabez to look upon him- 
self as the veriest blackguard unhung, the most mis- 
guided fool alive. For days thereafter, the bluff old 
fellow moped; and when he was not moping, he was 
cursing himself ; and when he was not doing that he was 
cursing Horace Blagden. I will not attempt to enumer- 
ate the countless and varied devices practised by the 
old man to win back the confidence of his young friend, 
nor will I try to describe his alternating moods as these 
devices prospered or shrivelled. This much I will say: 
he became a very dull and uninteresting story-teller for 
the obvious reason that he maintained a strict and rigid 
adherence to the truth. His veracity was truly op- 
pressive. The days of the pirates were over. In their 
stead were commonplace narratives in which he seldom 
performed anything more heroic than the swabbing of 
a deck, or, perhaps, an encounter with an obstinate 
pawnbroker. As time went on, the two children began 
to look upon him as a very tiresome and unprofitable 
person. Finally, one day, long after his regenerate 
period began, the anxious anticipation in Mary’s starved 
soul burst its bonds, and she almost wailed: 

“ Uncle J abe, why don’t you tell us any more grand 
stories ? ” 

“ Because,” said he, ‘‘ it ain’t right to tell lies.” 

‘‘ But how would we know they were lies ? ” 

“ You can alius tell when a feller’s lyin’, if you once 
ketch him in one,” quoth he. 

“ Well, they are lots of fun, just the same,” pro- 
tested she. “Ain’t they, Eric?” 


THE ENTRANCE OF ADAM CARR 61 


“ Yes,” said Eric rather gravely, “ if you tell ’em in 
fun.” 

‘‘ I’ll tell ’em, all you like,” said Jabez, his face 
brightening, “ if you’ll promise to believe they’re lies.” 

“ Then, how will we know when you’re telling the 
truth.? ” 

He pondered. After five puffs at his pipe, he said: 
“ Well, if I begin by sayirC they’re the God’s truth, you 
can believe ’em. If I don’t say that, you’ll know they’re 
lies.” 

And so it was that old Jabez came joyously into his 
own again. 

This narrative, with your permission, kind reader, has 
little more to do with the Midthomes as small children. 
Suffice to say, they were more or less like other chil- 
dren in this respect: they could not remain young for- 
ever, They had to grow up. In passing, it may be 
stated that the sage counsel of old Jabez alone kept 
Eric from running away from the grey house on the hill, 
in those early days of shame and resentment. 

You can’t afford to do that, sonny,” he announced. 

Jest put it right out of your head, once and for all. 
If you was alone in the world, I’d say skip. But you 
ain’t. You got to look out for Mary. It’s plumb 
foolish to talk about takin’ her with you. That would 
be the quickest way to send her to the gutter. I know 
it goes against the grain to stay up there with them 
people, but it’s a derned sight better’n starvin’ to death 
on the streets. You jest stick it out. You wouldn’t 
be so crool as to skip out and leave her there for them 
to pester and bulldoze. They’d put upon her terrible. 
They’d make a drudge of her, and worse’n that, maybe. 
You’d be a mortal coward to run off and leave her, and 


62 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


you jest can’t take her with you. No, sirree, my boy! 
You stick it out. Stand by your guns. Just you wait 
a few years. I know what I’m talkin’ about. You 
see, I run away when I was fifteen and went to sea. I 
wished a thousand times I hadn’t, ’cause my step-father 
was nasty mean to my sisters and my mother.” 

He hesitated for a moment and then went on: You 

wait a few years, and then you can tell ’em to go to 
hell.” After a few reflective pulls at his pipe, he 
vouchsafed: “And, mind you, Eric, there is such a 
place as hell.” 

Eric, at sixteen, was as handsome a lad as you’d see 
in a week’s journey. He was growing with a steadiness 
that promised a good six feet at man’s estate, and he 
was as straight and as strong as a young sapling, and 
as lithe and graceful as an Indian. He excelled at all 
the games in which strength, agility and quick-witted- 
ness were paramount. In baseball, football, skating, 
racing and sailing he was a leader because he was an 
adept; because, while fearless, he was never headstrong; 
while conscious of his natural superiority, he was not 
arrogant. It was not unusual for him to step aside to 
give a less accomplished friend the chance to carry off 
honours that might easily have been his. This trait did 
not go unrecognised, nor was it unappreciated by his 
companions. An extremely uncommon condition 
marked this attitude toward him on all occasions: in- 
stead of boasting of their own prowess, they freely ad- 
mitted that “ Eric Midthome could do better than that 
if he half tried.” Nor was there the faintest touch of 
jealousy or envy in their summing-up of his deeds. 

The gentle, pleasant ways of the Southland were 
strong in him; he was prone to resent an affront with 
vigour, and as quick to repent. The hot blood in his 


THE ENTRANCE OF ADAM CARR 63 


yeins was hard to control, but he always had the better 
of it. There was no indignity so grave that he could 
not deflect it without losing his temper entirely. He 
was afraid of the shadow that stalked beside him: the 
shadow he had inherited. If others knew the story 
of his antecedents, they were generous enough to keep i 
the knowledge to themselves. In all the years he lived f 
in Corinth, no one outside his own family, the Pres- 
breys and old Jabez, spoke to him of his father and 
mother. He knew that they knew, and he was deeply 
sensible of their well-meant restraint. Their kindly 
reticence had a sting, however; there was no minute in 
his life that his pride was not being hurt by the knowl- 
edge that they were being generous. 

He was in the high-school of Corinth, a leader in his 
classes as well as in the sports of the season. In two 
years he would enter Harvard. Mary, quite the pret- 
tiest girl in town, was his pride and joy, and constant 
care. She was gay, volatile, and deeply sensitive to 
the approach of slights and criticism, from which, when 
they came, she was quick to recover. She had him to 
lean upon, to look up to in case of trouble, and it is not 
surprising that the eternal feminine in her took advan- 
tage of that very stable support. 

Chetwynd was in Harvard, where he was trying for 
the crew and the eleven, and for very little else. If 
Eric had entertained the hope that he might ‘grow big', 
enough and strong enough to “ thrash ” his bully of a 
cousin, he was likely to be disappointed. Chetwynd 
was a perfect young giant: he was the real and visible 
lord of “ The Giant’s Castle.” There was no gain- 
saying that. To the surprise of everyone, — his father 
in particular, — the indolent boy developed into a 
rugged, towering mass of muscle and endurance. In 


64 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


his twentieth year, he stood well over six feet, and in 
his rowing togs tipped the beam at 180, — which 
seemed to be just what was wanted at Harvard. 

Can you picture Chetwynd? Is not your imagina- 
tion strong enough to see him in all his physical glory? 
Have you any doubts as to his attitude toward the lesser 
physiques of Corinth? Given, a boy who has had 
arrogance as a birthright, snobbishness as a product, 
and moral stealth as a necessity: add two years of 
athletic triumph at Harvard, and you have Chetwynd. 

He went in for boxing and punching the bag. This 
was advised by his trainers. In college there were stal- 
warts who could maul him with impunity — and science, 
— because Chetwynd really lacked moral stamina, but 
when he got back home for the summer vacation or 
the holidays, he revelled in a perfect whirl of boxing- 
glove victories. It was never quite fair to hit Chet- 
wynd hard, but it was an education to be slammed vig- 
orously by this elegant expert. 

You’ve got to learn how to take it some time,” 
was his usual response to their objections, “ and the 
sooner the better. Be a man ! ” 

Eric came in for some sound drubbings in the 
name of science. He was slighter and not so tall as 
his cousin, but he was gamer than the rest of the boys 
Avho “ put on the gloves ” with the magnificent Sopho- 
more. While Eric knew little of boxing as it is taught, 
he could stand punishment for the sport of the game — 
and he could inflict it, too. 

More often than not, Chetwynd was compelled to re- 
mind him, in the thick of combat, that if he couldn’t 
box like a gentleman and not like a murderer, he would 
not “ take him on ” again. Whereupon Eric, consid- 
erably depressed and hurt, would lose much of his fierce- 


THE ENTRANCE OF ADAM CARR 65 


ness, and, as a result, received a lesson entirely satis- 
factory to Chetwynd. 

“ Oh, if I was only big enough ! ” the boy cried time 
and again to old Jabez, in announcing the result of his 
most recent contest. 

“ You’ll grow, sonny,” mused Jabez. “ He’s a cow- 
ard at heart, and if you wasn’t so derned sensitive you 
could put it all over him.” 

One day, toward the close of the summer vacation, 
Eric succeeded in drawing blood from Chetwynd’s nose,, 
and in the fusillade that followed, landed a blow which 
discoloured the big boy’s eyes — a most ignominious 
illumination. Chetwynd, in wild rage, grappled with 
his lighter antagonist, and, hurling him to the ground, 
beat him unmercifully, all the time calling him a mur- 
derer’s son, — and even worse. 

Eric, as usual, carried his tale of woe to the old sea- 
man. He was bitterly lamenting his unhappy position 
in the Blagden family, and the insults he was forced 
to endure, when a stranger appeared on the scene. 

It was a warm September day, and they were. sitting 
on the bench under the shade trees just inside the gates 
to the Park. Eric was nursing a bruised cheek and a 
twisted elbow. He had experienced some difficulty in 
evading his sister and Joan Bright, the one girl in 
Corinth who held an undisputed place in his loyal young 
heart. They were playing croquet on the lawn, and 
he, in shame-faced defeat, had been obliged to crawl 
over a back fence on leaving the cellar — (where the 
boxing contests took place), — in order to avoid a meet- 
ing and certain explanations. He would have given 
much to be able to stride before Joan Bright, a victor 
over the bully in whom, for reasons inexplicable to Eric, 
she professed to have a marked interest. Joan, by the 


66 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


way, was the daughter of Judge Bright, not quite fif- 
teen and amazingly pretty. 

But, I am on the point of digressing. It really 
doesn’t matter about Joan at this particular juncture. 
She will come in later, very handily, I’m sure. It is 
only necessary to repeat that, by skilful dodging, he 
managed to skirt the lawn without coming face to 
face with the girls, and reached the friendly bench on 
which he and Jabez were found by the stranger I came 
so near to overlooking. Which would have been a de- 
plorable oversight, as he is to have a most important 
part in the unravelling of this tale. 

He was a stocky, well-put-up sort of man with a 
singularly hard and forbidding face, recently shaved; 
his cold grey eyes were set far back in his head and 
were shaded by straight, bushy brows of black. His 
mouth was wide and rather sinister in its expression. 
There was a suggestion of a smile in its corners, but 
not a smile of mirth; rather one of derision. Eric’s 
first glimpse of him came when he happened to turn 
his eyes, as if urged by an impulse that was far from 
voluntary, in the direction of the watch-house by the 
gate. The stranger, in his shirt sleeves and smoking 
a short pipe, was leaning in the doorway, idly surveying 
the two on the bench. The boy stared for a moment, 
the words dying on his lips. 

It was the first time he had seen a human being, 
other than old Jabez, about the little house. He was 
at once struck by the fact that the stranger was quite 
at home and on familiar terms with the gate-keeper. 

Eric never knew why it was, but he suddenly found 
himself contrasting this hard-featured individual and 
the ascetic, pious-eyed tormentor of his soul, the ex- 


THE, ENTRANCE OR ADAM CARR 61! 


^cellent Mr. Presbrey, He was afterward to enjoy the 
humour of that ludicrous comparison. 

‘‘ Oh,” said old Jabez, with a start, ‘‘ that’s my son^ 
Eric. He’s stopping in town for a week or two, so’s 
he can come over to spend his vacation with me. Adam, 
come here and shake hands with my young friend, Mr.j 
Eric Midthome.” 

The man came forward, extending his hand. A half- 
smile grew in his weather-beaten face. 

“ Glad to meet you,” said he. His voice was hard 
and unmusical, but friendly. 

“ Thank you, sir,” said Eric, as they shook hands.. 
Adam Carr’s hand was soft but firm. It was hardly 
what Eric expected. He looked like a man who had 
known nothing but hard labour. 

“ Father says you and he are great friends. It’s 
very good of you to come and cheer him up as you do.’^ 
His manner was tender, but his voice and eyes hard as 
flint, if the metaphor is permissible. 

Old Jabez chuckled. “I reckon he gets something 
for his trouble, Adam. I fill his brain chuck full of 
hair-raisin’ lies. He’d oughter make a grand novel 
writer, if he can jest remember all I tell him.” 

“ You surely don’t believe all my dad tells you, do 
you ? ” said Adam, removing his pipe to grin the better. 

“ No, sir,” said Eric promptly. “ He always tells 
us when they’re not true.” f 

That’s more than he ever did at home,” said Adam, 
with a sly wink. 

“ Are you a sailor ” asked the boy. 

“Not a regular sailor,” said the other deliberately. 
“ I’ve been a little of everything in my time. It don’t 
pay to stick to any one thing too long. You get in 


68 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


a rut, and life’s a poor job if you stay in the rut so long 
that you don’t feel like making the effort to get out of 
it. Been in a scrap with somebody ? ” he asked, eyeing 
Eric’s bruise. 

“ Just a friendly boxing match,” said Eric, with a 
quick glance at Jabez. 

“ Feller much too big for him,” remarked Jabez. 

His cousin. A dirt mean college chap.” 

Adam’s hard, mirthless smile returned. “Do you 
know much about boxing.^ ” Eric confessed his igno- 
rance of the finer points. “ I’ll give you a few instruc- 
tions, if you’d like ’em,” said Adam Carr, a strange light 
coming into his eyes. “ I can show you a few things 
that will jolt this chap so’s he won’t get over the sur- 
prise for a week.” 

Eric jumped at the chance. “ I’ll borrow the 
gloves,” he cried. 

“ All right,” said Adam, sitting down and com- 
placently relighting his pipe. “ We’ll begin to-mor- 
row morning. I’ll be here for a week. Can you come 
to my room in the Massasoit House ? ” 

The next morning Eric appeared with the gloves. 
Every day for a week, he visited Adam Carr’s room 
in the cheap water-front hotel. The man’s skill with 
the gloves was a revelation to the boy. Chetwynd was 
the merest novice in comparison. Try as he would, 
Eric could not break through his guard, nor could he, 
in all his wild clumsiness, dispel the calm indifference 
that marked his manner. Adam was as light as a 
feather, and as quick as a cat, despite his stocky frame 
and phlegmatic bearing. Time and again, the boy 
would stop, panting, to grin sheepishly and bewail the 
fact that he could make no impression on his adversary. 

“You’re doing splendidly,” said Adam, without so 


THE ENTRANCE OF ADAM CARR 69 


much as a quickening of the breath. “ The main point 
is this; I can’t hit you as easily as I did in the begin- 
ning. .You’re learning how to take care of yourself. 
You’re managing to keep cool, and that’s the chief 
thing in boxing. You are sidestepping and ducking 
very neatly, — something you couldn’t do at all in the 
beginning. I don’t wonder your cousin knocked your 
block off. Now, I’ll begin to show you a few tricks 
at the game, a few punches. You won’t learn ’em very 
thoroughly while I’m here, but you’ll have ’em well 
enough to upset your cousin in good shape. There’s 
one thing to guard against; don’t let him rush in and 
clinch. He’s too big and strong for you. He’d mur- 
der you in a wrestling match. Keep dancing away all 
the time. Get him rattled, get him mad.” 

Two days after Adam Carr’s departure from Cor- 
inth, Eric, in the presence of half-a-dozen envious boys 
who had suffered ignominy at Chetwynd’s hands, very 
effectually humiliated his big and raging cousin. He 
hit him at will, successfully evading the returns that 
were meant to lay him out, kept out of clinches, and 
cleverly outboxed the cock-of-the-walk. No greater 
insult could have been offered to Chetwynd than this. 
He returned to Cambridge fully a week earlier than he 
had intended, much to the surprise of his parents, who, 
somehow, rejoiced in a certain profound thoughtful- 
ness tliat came over their son. 

Eric was not a boaster. He took his triumph over 
Chetwynd with becoming grace. “ It’s nothing to 
brag about,” he explained to his friends. “ That’s 
only once for me. Just think how many times he has 
whaled me.” Nevertheless, he had come upon a new 
joy in living. His heart was lighter. His victory 
may have increased Chetwynd’s hatred, but it also 


70 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


served to create a wholesome respect in that young gen- 
tleman’s breast. There was something in that. 

There was a dense atmosphere of mystery surround- 
ing Adam Carr. Eric was unable to penetrate it, and 
he could obtain no light from the man’s father. Old 
Jabez was resolutely non-committal. He would shake 
his head over Eric’s eager questions, and answer eva- 
sively when driven to a comer. 

“ Now, don’t pester me any more about Adam,” he 
finally exploded, when Mary added her inquiries to 
those of her brother. “ What business is it of yours 
iwhat business he’s in? It’s an honest business, and it 
ain’t prize-fighting, either.” 

‘‘How did he leam so much about boxing?” de- 
manded the persistent pupil. 

Jabez glared. “From his father!” he roared. “I 
learned him all he knows about it.” 

“ Oh, rats! ” scoffed Eric, not at all impolitely. 

“ Oh, Uncle J abe ! ” added Mary reproachfully. 

“ Do you mean to caU me a liar? ” gasped the an- 
cient. 

“ No, indeed,” cried both of them in a breath. 

“ Well, see that you don’t,” muttered he, very un- 
comfortable. “Adam’s business is his business, just 
you bear that in mind.” 

They were not to see Adam Carr again for more than 
a year, nor were they to hear of him. He had sunk 
back into the void from which he emerged so unex- 
pectedly on that warm September day. 

With Adam temporarily out of the way, we can de- 
vote our time and attention to an infinitely more at- 
tractive creature — Joan Bright. Joan was an only 
child. As a rule, an only child is not popular outside 
his or her immediate family. Somehow, we have a prej- 


THE ENTRANCE OF ADAM CARR 71 


udice against an “ only child.” I daresay the grudge 
is atmospheric, and comes from the fact that we our- 
selves have never enjoyed the exclusive privilege of 
being an only child. With Joan Bright, this phase 
of antagonism did not hold good: she was adored by 
everyone. No one thought of criticising her for being 
a petted, indulged “ only child.” It really wasn’t be- 
cause she was the daughter of a very distinguished gen- 
tleman, the Honourable Oswald Bright of Upper Corinth 
and the Commonwealth at large. Not at all. A great 
many people did not like Judge Bright, even though 
they respected him. He had made a multitude of ene- 
mies by administering justice as it is meant to be ad- 
ministered. You should not be asked to like a judge 
who has ruled against you. But you would have liked 
Joan, you would have adored her. Everyone else did, 
and you could not possibly have been an exception. 

Judge Bright — sometimes called “ His Honour 
Bright” — was no longer involved in the adjudication 
of local disputes. He had gone beyond that some 
years ago. To-day he was one of the justices in the 
Supreme Court of the State, and there was some talk, 
— in Corinth, at least, — of a seat on the United States 
Supreme bench when he had become too old for active 
service in his present capacity. But that is neither 
here nor there. His home was in Corinth. 

They called the hill part of the town Upper Corinth 
in these days, for social as well as geological reasons. 
If you lived above Twelfth street you were of Upper 
Corinth. Your business would have to be below Twelfth 
street. No one but landscape gardeners and architects 
did business above. (It was before the day of chauf- 
feurs and vacuum cleaners.) 

Joan, whose mother died when the girl was six, was 


72 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


the particular and devoted friend of Mary Midthome, 
although nearly two years her senior. Two more 
lovely, loveable girls could not well be imagined, much 
less created. Both were fair to look upon, slim, proud, 
aristocratic, yet simple-hearted and unspoiled. They 
were dark-eyed — but Avhy describe them now.^^ They 
; are half-grown children, mere prophecies of woman- 
hood. We can only say that they were adorably pretty, 
and pray that they may not out-grow their charms, 
as so many do. If they are as lovely when they grow 
up, — as they will long before this tale is ended, — it 
may be worth while for me to describe them and for you 
to contemplate them without reference to the old saying 
which condemns a fair child to unattractive maturity. 

Joan was shy. Few pretty girls are shy. They may 
be bashful but not shy. There is quite a distinction. 
Joan was not bashful, which is the same thing as saying 
she was not clumsy or awkward. She was perfectly 
sure of herself, possessed a certain amount of poise, 
and had an air. You may ask, then, why she is de- 
picted as shy. Why is the pet deer that feeds com- 
placently from your hand shy? Not because it is 
afraid of you. You wouldn’t speak of a cow as a 
shy creature. The deer is shy because it is high-strung, 
delicate, sensitive. Well, Joan was like the deer. 

She was the apple of her father’s eye. She held his 
heart-strings in those slender fingers of hers, and she 
drew them so gently that he never suspected he was 
being led whither she willed. He quite approved of her 
friendship for the Midthome children, although he was 
in full possession of their lamentable history. As a 
matter of fact, Horace Blagden’s appointment as guard- 
ian of the children had been made in Judge Bright’s 
court before his ascendency to the Supreme bench. He 


THE ENTRANCE OF ADAM CARR 73 


not only knew the history of the children but he sym- 
pathised with them. He had been very fond of Mary 
Blagden, and he had liked Phil Midthome. But, what 
may be more to the point, he was aware of the hand- 
some bequest which Horace controlled as guardian. 

It has already been hinted that Eric was interested 
in the Judge’s daughter. He had known Joan Bright 
since the first days of his residence in Corinth, and for 
just that length of time he had been her devoted, but 
diffident adorer. It began at the age of six, when he 
performed for her especial benefit such deeds of valour 
as standing on his head or hands — (chiefly on the back 
of his neck or his ear), turning somersaults, walking 
fence rails, — we’ve all gone to such lengths to pro- 
duce an effect on the first lady of our heart. As time 
wore on, he became more enamoured but less valiant. 
When he was sixteen, he was positively timorous. He 
was not in the least backward so far as other girls 
were concerned; no one was more at ease, more cock- 
sure of himself, more debonair. But with Joan — ah, 
well! It is an ancient affliction. No man is complete 
in himself unless he has had this disease and the measles 
— and recovered from both. 

It must be admitted that she, with all the perversity . 
of her sex, denied him the most because she liked him 
the best. Even young girls are capable of this. It’s 
what makes women of them — the kind of women we 
go the farthest to please and to whom we are always 
grateful if the road is tortuous. Joan treated him 
most cavalierly at times. There was a good and suf- 
ficient reason, one affected by all girls of spirit: the 
tender suspicion, slyly encouraged, that she was in love 
with him. 

Of course, she explained to herself, it was not at all 


74 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


true, and she went to a great deal of pains to convince 
herself of the fact, — to such pains, I may say, that 
he also was convinced. She was so confidently heart- 
less in the matter that she rather enjoyed the sensation 
of being a dear friend to his sister. It is a great com- 
fort to be devoted to the sister of the man you despise. 

1 Eric despaired. Manfully, of course, and in secret. 
His pride stood in the way of open attention to her. 
He never danced with her more than once in an evening; 
he seldom skated with her. But his heart was sore, and 
he was jealous. 

He was grateful to her for the frank affection she 
bestowed on Mary. It proved Mary’s position, and 
he cared more for that than for anything else in the 
world. She could hold up her head in Corinth when 
she walked with Joan Bright. As for himself, he 
dumbly realised that Joan Bright could never be more 
to him than the friend of his sister; he could ask for 
nothing more, being the son of a slayer of men. Was 
she not the daughter of a judge of men.? 

To be sure, Mary was cautioned by her aunt not 
to put evil ideas into the head of the innocent Joan! 
She had a selfish motive in preserving Judge Bright’s 
daughter from contamination. Joan was an unwitting 
candidate for the hand of Chetwynd. The alliance, it 
seems, was desired by Horace. Neither Joan nor Chet- 
wynd was consulted. Nor Judge Bright, for that mat- 
ter. The Blagdens would see to all that when Chet- 
wynd was a little older. 

Mary was permitted to read “ The Scarlet Letter ” 
when she was twelve. Her aunt professed a holy horror 
of the letter A, though just why she thought of it in 
connection with a mere child — or even an unmarried 
person, — is not quite clear. 


THE ENTRANCE OF ADAM CARR 75 


An ordinary bomb, aimed at the smug Blagden se- 
renity, in all likelihood would have created no percepti- 
ble disturbance, but one day there came an explosion 
that not only startled Horace and his wife out of their 
complacency but quite upset them for all time to come. 

Chetwynd was expelled,— ^ dishonourably expelled,— 
' from Harvard 1 


CHAPTER y 


SEAWARD 

It was said that Horace aged ten years in less than a 
week. The shock came about the time of the Easter 
vacation, and fell from a clear sky. Chetwynd and an- 
other youth had been found guilty of indiscretions that 
could not be overlooked by the powers at Harvard. 
The true story never quite came to light, but there 
was a great deal of talk about two chorus girls, dis- 
graceful orgies, voluptuous dances and a brawl in which 
one of the young women was severely beaten. 

Chetwynd was bundled off to Europe, with his mother, 
to stay until the thing blew over, or, at least, until 
Horace could clear his perturbed brain of the some- 
thing that seemed to clog it. Besides, there were the 
ugly newspaper accounts to be lived down; that is to 
say, the stories that were printed in the Boston and 
New York papers. It goes without saying that the 
Corinth Courier ignored the matter. There was not 
a line of it in the columns of the local paper. Horace 
Blagden owned the publisher of the Courier, body and 
soul, as well as considerable of the stock in his news- 
paper. 

Todville unhesitatingly assisted in giving voice to 
all the tales, true and untrue, that came to notice. 
There was general rejoicing among the inmates of the 
Seaman’s Home, and along the water-front. In the 
bar-rooms and grogshops there were contests between 
all who struggled to create the coarsest jests at the ex- 
pense of the great and spotless man of Corinth. If 
76 


SEAWARD 


7T 

he could have heard them, the subject of these ribald 
quips would have shrivelled within himself, and groaned. 

Eric and Mary were wise enough to hold their 
tongues, and to curb a very natural elation. From 
afar off, they watched the comings and goings of the 
Rev. Mr. Presbrey, and somehow their keen inner con- 
sciousness told them that he, too, in his own way, re- 
joiced in the downfall of Chetwynd, who had long been 
a thorn in his side; a thorn he could not well afford to 
extract, but must endure in patient humility, — as, for 
instance, the Hindoo fanatic suffers himself to lie on 
his bed of pointed spikes. 

In course of time Mrs. Blagden and Chetwynd re- 
turned to Corinth. The summer was waning and raw, 
fog-laden winds were sweeping in from the sea. All 
summer long, when other men were sweltering in the 
heat, Horace Blagden’s heart was feeling the raw, chill 
winds of the sea ; there was no warmth in the world for 
him. Something had frozen within him, and it would 
never thaw. He went to Boston to meet the returning 
voyagers ; he came back with them to Corinth, outwardly 
as proud and confident as ever, but inwardly as desolate 
and humble as the lowliest of Lazaruses. 

The sore that hurt him most was the one that opened 
every time he thought of Mary Blagden’s children. 
Why could it not have been one of them instead of Chet- 
wynd? Why should an ironical malevolent fate have 
led his son into the very mire he had prescribed for 
hers? Horace could not understand why God had 
done this thing to him, while Mary’s son was so avail- 
able. 

Corinth received the wayward youth without reserve. 
Houses and arms were opened to him, just as Horace 
expected; and the tactless assistant paying teller in 


78 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


the bank who politely asked if Chetwynd was to return! 
to Harvard next week, was the one who lost his place 
in order that the president’s son might begin his career 
as a banker — a little earlier than his father had in- 
tended, to be sure, but in accordance with a destiny he 
had personally arranged. The tactless teller assisted 
fate to a certain extent by putting the question, for 
Mr. Blagden was in somewhat of a quandary as to how 
he could make room for Chetwynd without removing a 
competent employe. Of course, it was quite obvious 
that a competent employe would never have asked if 
Chetwynd were to return to Harvard. It made it very 
easy to remove him. ' 

Chetwynd rather objected to going into the bank 
at first. He was quite sure he could make the crew at 
Yale, if the Governor would only go down to New 
Haven and “ fix it up ” with the heads of the institu- 
tion. It did not enter his head that a man so powerful 
as Horace Blagden could fail to influence the officials 
of any college, in spite of the Harvard episode. But 
Horace said he hoped he would never be called upon to 
resort to anything so desperate as the sending of a son 
of his to Yale! 

So Chetwynd began his career as a banker sullenly, 
and in defiance of what he considered his own best in- 
terests. He started a moustache, and insisted that it 
was his right to smoke cigarettes, having taken a course 
in the art at college. 

Besides cigarettes and athletics, Chetwynd had aroused 
in himself the ambition to become an architect. It 
struck him as rather humiliating that he should have to 
give up his chosen profession and go to work in a bank. 
His father, as a compromise, offered to procure private 
instruction if he cared to continue the work begun at 


SEAWARD 79 

college, but he would have to assimilate it after banking 
hours. 

“ Corinth is no place for an architect who really 
wants to get anywhere,” protested Chetwynd. 

“ The town is growing, my boy,” remarked his fa- 
ther. 

' “New York is the only place,” grumbled the son. 
“ I could do something there.” 

“ I fancy Corinth will do for you to practise on,” 
said Horace grimly. “ I think, in the end, you will 
see the advantage of learning the banking business. A 
Blagden must be at the head of the bank, my boy. I 
cannot live forever.” 

“Don’t say that, father,” protested Chetwynd, with 
a leer that was meant to be genial. 

“ You may take up architecture as a side issue, if 
you like,” said Horace patiently. “ Just as other men 
go in for the collecting of first editions, and so on. I 
know a successful merchant in Boston who devotes his 
spare time to the painting of portraits, just as a recre- 
ation, don’t you see. It is — 

“ I think I’d like to be a banker for recreation, 
father, and an architect for keeps.” 

I “You will find I am right,” said Horace finally. 

“ Yes, sir. You always are,” agreed his son obedi- 
ently. 

Along toward the middle of the ensuing May, the 
County board decided to erect a new court-house in 
Corinth. With calm New England zeal, they prefaced 
the ultimate decision by offering a medal to the high- 
school youth who submitted the most artistic design 
for the building, promising that the final plans should 
be based on the successful candidate’s ideas by the 
architect who secured the contract. A day or two after 


80 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


the original announcement was made, the words “ or 
any student in Architecture,” was inserted in the invi- 
tation. This was done in order that Chetwynd Blagden 
might compete. 

The boys of Corinth high school took to the propo- 
sition with a zest that was flattering, but not surpris- 
ing. Eric Midthorne, a senior by this time, had a * 
natural bent for drawing and construction. He, as well 
as Chetwynd, had notions of becoming an architect and 
builder, with the distinction that Eric was seriously in 
earnest, heart and soul. He was to enter Harvard in 
the fall; his interest in the court-house competition 
was enhanced by the hope that he might win, and 
therefore go into college with a no uncertain prestige 
behind him. He worked faithfully, diligently after 
school hours on the plans, unhindered by the thought 
of examinations, for he was well up in his studies, and 
confident. Other boys in his class went about the plans 
half-heartedly, once they learned that Eric was putting 
his hand and brain to the effort. They glumly agreed 
among themselves that they would have no chance 
against him, and it was pretty generally conceded that 
he would carry off the prize, hands down. 

Chetwynd was allowed to go to New York over Sat- 
urdays and Sundays for special instruction. To all 
intents and purposes, he was vitally interested in the 
effort to win. He must have worked hard while in 
the Metropolis, for he always looked tired and red- 
eyed on his return to Corinth. On several occasions 
he failed to reach home before Monday night, but his 
parents understood and sympathised when he confessed 
that he had worked all the night before and was so 
exhausted that he overslept and missed the early trains. 
He spent two weeks’ vacation in New York early i^_^ 


SEAWARD 


81 


June, returning at the end of that period, haggard and 
pale from the effects of over-study. His parents were 
alarmed but gratified. They liked the bull-dog spirit 
that moved him to such splendid endeavour. 

“He will win,” pronounced Horace, calm in a re- 
stored pride. “ There can be no doubt of it. You 
cannot appreciate how pleased I am, Presbrey, over his 
determination. He has it in him. Nothing can stop 
the boy now ; he has found himself.” 

“ He will be a great blessing to you, my dear friend,” 
said Mr. Presbrey. “ I have always said that he had 
it in him, if you remember.” 

“ Perhaps,” said Mr. Blagden thoughtfully, “ it was 
for the best that he got away from the evil influences at 
college.” 

“ I rej oice that you are becoming reconciled to that 
view, sir. You may recall my remarks at the time. I 
ventured the opinion that — ” 

“ Really, Presbrey, I don’t remember anything that 
was said at the time,” interrupted Horace impatiently. 

“ Of course not,” agreed Mr. Presbrey readily. 

How could you ? It wasn’t to be expected of you. 
But you see now that I was right, I am sure. Out 
of evil there — ” 

“ You can’t imagine how happy his mother is, Pres- 
brey,” said Horace, who had heard all this before and 
affected not to hear it now. 

“ She must be,” said Mr. Presbrey heartily. 

It may be added that Mr. Presbrey, despite his con- 
soling prophecies, was the most amazed man in Corinth 
over the remarkable regeneration of Chetwynd. Some- 
how, down in his pious heart, he experienced difficulty 
in rejoicing. 

One Saturday morning, a week before the awarding 


82 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


of the prize for the best design, Eric, having com- 
pleted his drawings and laid them away in his room to 
await the time for their presentation to the committee 
of architects, invited Mary and Joan Bright to go for 
a short sail in the bay. He was an adept at handling 
a sail-boat, confident but not reckless, and many an 
old seaman had complimented him on his prowess. He 
had taken Mary and other girls out beyond Lord’s 
Point on numerous occasions, but never before had he 
screwed up courage to ask Joan to take a seat in the 
boat. While he gloomily deplored his lack of initiative 
in this respect, she, it must be said, rather petulantly, 
but in secret, resented what she chose to regard as a 
rude oversight, — a slight, if you please. 

To his surprise and joy, she consented to go out 
with him on this memorable occasion, being in a particu- 
larly good humour and unusually gracious. 

It was not uncommon for the young people of the 
town to go sailing in the placid little bay; no parent 
objected if they did not venture into the open sea. 
The bay was full of fishing-boats, coming and going, and 
there was little or no danger if the weather was good. 

At the last minute, Mrs. Blagden refused to let Mary 
go, keeping her at home on some pretext. Of course^ 
that came near to spoiling the sport of the morning. 
Joan, however, arose in her independence, and an* 
nounced her readiness to go out for an hour without 
Mary. 

“ I’m glad I haven’t an aunt to treat me as sh^ 
treats you,” she said to Mary, and then went off to the 
little pier with the delighted Eric, who, after all, was a 
bit grateful to Aunt Rena, although, in his heart, he 
was sorry for Mary. 


SEAWARD 


83 


The day was bright and clear, with a fine, light wind 
blowing steadily from the ocean. They planned to sail 
to the Point, turn and cross the mouth of the bay just 
inside the swell of the sea, and then come racing in 
3vith a fresh three-quarter breeze. In two hours they 
would be back at the pier, where Mary was to meet 
them. 

Joan poised herself comfortably on the rail. Her 
cheeks were warm with excitement and her eyes danced 
to the tune his heart was singing, all unbeknownst to 
her. Never in all his life had he been so happy' as 
now, and never so self-consciously stupid. She chatted 
gaily, easily, while he, in his exaltation, responded so 
inaptly that in time, forsooth, he fell to making hard 
work of the sail in order to cover his confusion. 

He looked out to sea, and into his soul there came 
the longing to sail on forever with her, straight into the 
boundless waste, where he might rise to such heights 
of heroism that confidence would come to him, and 
he would not be afraid of her. He was not afraid of 
the sea, but his heart quailed before that smooth, mobile 
cheek and those limpid, wrathless eyes. And yet he 
was inelf ably happy. Surely he had her all to himself 
now. But to what purpose? 

Steadily the airy craft beat its way through the 
greenish, glinting waters of the bay, heeling, righting, 
swashing, sending its genial spray into their faces, 
pointing, as a dog points, — as if it were a thing of life 
with an instinct of its own. Joan dodged and shifted 
as the boom swung over, laughed with glee when the 
spray threatened her reefer. Her soft brown hair 
played in the wind; the red bow at her throat fluttered 
or flattened as the wind ordained ; her trim, slender body 


84s 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


was braced against the rush of air, active, alert, all 
unconscious of the picture she made. 

His head was bare. His dark hair lay back from 
his forehead. His eyes gleamed with- the fever of ex- 
altation. When they were not stealing sly glances at 
her, they were set straight ahead, focussed on the dis- 
tant Point as if it were a thing to avoid. 

“ It’s great, isn’t it ? ” he called out to her. 

‘‘ Splendid ! ” she sang. “ I love it ! I love it ! ” 

“Will you come out again?” 

She caught herself up. “ I don’t know.” As he did 
not press the invitation, she was driven to the curt ques- 
tion: “When?” 

“ Any day you like,” he replied eagerly. “ Will 
you, J oan ? ” ^ 

“ If your aunt will let Mary come, too,” she said, 
mischief in her heart. 

“ Certainly,” he acquiesced, much too readily to please 
her vanity. 

“ Are you sure you know how to sail a boat, Eric? ” 
she asked, so innocently that his pride was hurt in turn. 

“ Ain’t I sailing her all right to-day ? ” he demanded. 

She was instantly ashamed of herself. “ It was mean 
of me to ask that question,” she cried. “ Everyone 
knows you are very skilful, Eric. Of course, I’m not 
afraid. I’ll come whenever you ask me.” Then, see- 
ing the glad sparkle in his eyes : “ If the weather is 

fine. It would be awful to be out in a little boat like 
this if a storm came up. Goodness, what could we 
do?” 

“ Beat for the shore as fast as we could,” he re- 
plied grimly. “We could get in ahead of any storm.” 

“ But suppose that the storm came from the shore 
and not from the sea. What then? ” 


SEAWARD 


85 


We’d be geese to let it catch us far out. Oh, it’s 
simple enough.” 

“ If we were geese we could swim in,” she said gaily. 

Sure,” he agreed, and they laughed aloud. 

She was silent for awhile, furtively studying his half- 
averted face. He was bringing the boat around with 
her nose toward the town, instead of following the 
course they had planned to take. 

“ Have you completed the plans, Eric.?* ” 

“ Yes,” he replied. “ They’re off my mind.” 

I do hope you will win. Everyone says you are 
sure to.” 

He did not answer at once. It struck her that he was 
singularly inattentive. The sail flapped viciously and 
the little craft heeled over as the boom swung around. 
A vast shadow came swimming out over the water, turn- 
ing the soft green to a blackish blue. The girl turned 
her head quickly in alarm. 

‘‘ Oh ! ” she cried, her eyes widening. 

Don’t be nervous,” he said calmly. ‘‘ There’s 
plenty of time.” 

From the hills back of Corinth a great wall of black 
clouds was rushing out upon them, leaping higher and 
higher against the sunlit opal sky. The very thing she 
had mentioned, half in banter, had come to pass. Storm 
clouds were indeed coming down from the shore, and 
they were ugly, menacing ones at that. 

Her remark had caused the enraptured boy to cast 
a casual glance shoreward. He had seen then, for the 
first time, the rim of black that capped the.^green hills, 
and, without alarming her, he quickly altered the course 
of the boat. He knew that the storm was close at 
hand: one of those swift, violent summer storms that 
swoop out of nowhere, it would seem, and sail down to 


86 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


the sea, to be lost or dissipated in the vast air currents 
that scorn so small a thing as a land breeze, no matter 
how fierce it may appear on its native heath. 

‘‘ You must hurry, Eric,” cried the girl, dread in 
her eves. “ Tell me, what can I do to help ? I am not 
afraid.” 

‘‘ It’s funny I never noticed it coming,” he muttered 
irrelevantly. There was much tacking to do, for the 
wind had shifted and they were still three miles or more 
f rom the piers. She sat, still and tense, looking straight 
ahead into the black banks after this, realising in some 
subtle way that it was no time to talk. 

• ••••••• 

They did not reach the piers. Long before they 
were half-way in, the gale broke over the frail craft, 
whipping it about as if it were a cork. They did not 
reach the piers and for a good reason. 

Instead, they were going out to sea, clinging to the 
bottom of the overturned boat, lashed and buffeted by 
blinding waves, and stung by the cutting rain. The 
sea roared and churned beneath them, the skies thun- 
dered and crashed above, and there was no one near to 
help them, no one near enough even to see them in their 
plight. 

When the boat went over, Joan was hurled far out 
from its side. Eric was after her in a flash, clasping 
her in his arms as she came to the surface, gasping and 
choking. He was a strong, courageous swimmer. Cry- 
ing out to her to be brave and calm, he struck out to 
overtake the black, slim bottom of the boat, which was 
dancing away from them on the waves. It was a hard, 
almost hopeless task, but he struggled manfully, finally 
coming near enough to grasp the rudder with his free 
hand. After a while he was able to draw her up to the 


SEAWARD 


87 


centre-board. There she clung with desperate strength, 
while he set about the hazardous undertaking of re- 
trieving the long spare end of a rope which whipped 
about in the sea. He released it from its fastening with 
his pocket knife, and then proceeded to lash it across 
the keel of the boat, looping it first over one oar-lock and 
then the other, all the while climbing back and forth 
over the slippery surface with the agility and sureness of 
a monkey. 

The girl was in this manner lashed quite firmly to the 
boat, and there was little or no likelihood of her slipping 
off into the water if a faintness seized her. After mak- 
ing her secure, he stayed himself in a somewhat similar 
fashion just opposite to her, close enough to support 
her in case she grew weak with despair and fear. 

All this time they had been crying out words of cheer 
to each other. Neither was of faint heart, for they 
were young and full of the right to live, but they were 
full of fear and dread. They were going out to sea. 

“ Someone will see us,” he cried, when he could get 
his breath. “ It’s only a little blow. These storms 
don’t last long. The sun will be out in a few min- 
> utes. Don’t worry, Joan. Mary knows we’re out here, 

' and so do lots of people. They’ll have boats out in 
less than no time.” 

But the storm raged with great fierceness for an hour 
before breaking, and they were driven swiftly, resist- 
lessly out to sea, where the waves were running high. 
Time and again they were almost completely submerged. 
The water-tight compartments in the bow and stern of 
the boat kept it afloat. They were in no danger of 
going to the bottom as long as they were not torn 
bodily from their fastenings. Each time they were 
swept under by a great wave, his hand clasped her arm 


88 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


in a grip of iron; each time that they came tlirough, 
half choked, they looked wildly at each other to be sure 
that one had not been swept away, and each time a dis- 
mal smile flitted across their faces. 

Eric turned his anxious gaze toward the distant town 
whenever they rode high on a wave, and each time he 
searched in vain for a rescuing craft. The town was now 
so far away that it was impossible to make out the build- 
ings along the shore. The hills were dim and indistinct, 
even in the bright sunlight that was following the storm. 
His face grew haggard with worry, his eyes wide with 
despair. 

What can be the matter with everybody ? ” he 
groaned. “ Mary must have given the alarm.” 

“ They’ll come, Eric,” she cried back tremulously. 
‘‘ They will come soon, won’t they ” 

“ Yes,” he answered, touching her cheek with his 
hand. “ They’re sure to come.” 

“ It would be awful to go away out to sea like this,” 
she whimpered. 

‘‘It’s my fault — it’s all my fault, Joan,” he cried,, 
in anguish. “ If anything should happen, it’s my faulty 
1 am Si murderer — that’s all I am.” 

“ You must not say that.” 

“ They said I’d be a murderer — ” 

“ Sh ! Eric ! You couldn’t help this. I don’t care 
what they say. You are brave and good and true.” 

“Have they said it to you.^” he demanded, turning 
his red, water-stung eyes upon her white face. 

“No one but Chetwynd. I hate him.” 

“ I say,” he shouted, suddenly craning his neck to 
look far ahead, a thrill shooting through his icy body. 
“We’re going straight toward Eddy’s Islands. God 


SEAWARD 


89 


may be good to us, Joan. We may be driven ashore on 
one of them. I — I thought we were going due east. 
I can see the islands away off there — miles and miles. 
Oh, if we only keep straight for them!” 

Eddy’s Islands were two small reefs, twenty miles off 
the coast, barren, ugly things that rose high in the air. 
On one of them was a lighthouse. A space of two 
miles or more separated the reefs, with a strong current 
driving between them. Big Eddy had the lighthouse, 
Little Eddy was without sign of life or vegetation: 
just a low, forbidding, sea-washed plane of rock, full of 
caves and crevasses. There was no beach on either of 
the islands, of course, but the rocky formation sloped 
into the water so gradually that it was dangerous for 
even small craft to approach close to them. 

At the rate they were going, Eric calculated that two 
hours would bring them abreast Eddy’s Islands. If 
they passed to the north, the light-keeper would see 
them. Joan’s dress was white. If they went to the 
south, or between the two, there was small chance of 
their being seen, unless the keeper was watching the 
sea closely with his glass. Their brightest hope lay in 
the possibility that they might be driven into the shal- 
low waters covering the unseen approach to the reefs. 
Eric knew the waters well. He had gone there dozens 
of times with the fishing boats. 

The sky was now clear, and a hot sun beat down upon 
them ; the storm was rollicking far ahead of them. A 
steady wind from the shore was blowing, and soon the 
tide would come out. Waves still ran high, but they 
were not so angry as they had been. 

Eric could see that the girl was growing weak from 
the strain and exposure. He was no longer able to- 


90 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


cheer her with his heartiest cries. She looked wan and 
ready to give up the struggle to keep her head from 
falling forward, limp with fatigue. 

To his despair, the current caught them up and drew 
them toward the passage between the islands. He be- 
gan to pray. His whole soul cried out to God, implor- 
ing Him to send them onto the shoals where he could 
have a chance to save the girl whose life was more to him 
now than anything else in all the world. His own 
strength and vitality were fast departing ; his limbs were 
chilled and numb, his senses dulled and sluggish with 
the drug of weariness. 

He could see that they would drift past the upper end 
of Little Eddy, perhaps a hundred yards from the visi- 
ble rocks. The broad, heaving ocean lay directly be- 
yond. It was clear to him that they had not been observed 
by the light-keeper. Just as he was in the deepest 
despair, the impulse to cut loose from the boat and try 
for the rocks came over him. He could easily swim that 
distance alone, but was his strength sufficient to do it 
with the almost dead weight of the girl as a burden.? 

Eric was always quick to act. He was cool, but he 
was daring. The thought was father to the act. He 
drew up his stiffened legs and began to unlace his shoes, 
first rolling his trousers up to the knees. Kicking off 
the heavy shoes, he clambered over the boat and set to 
work releasing Joan. She was faint, but conscious of 
his action. 

‘‘I’m going to swim in with you, Joan. Don’t be 
afraid. Do just as I tell you, and we’ll soon be safe. 
We’ll be able to wade after we get within twenty yards 
of the rock.” 

She followed his instructions to the best of her ability, 
and soon he was struggling frantically toward the ugly. 


SEAWARD 


91 


forbidding wall of rock, swimming with all the power 
that was left in his racked young body. Many a 
stronger swimmer than he would have failed in the at- 
tempt, but a strange, unnatural vigour came to his aid^ 
born of pride and desperation. 

Just as he realised that he could not swim a stroke 
farther, and the goal still many yards away, his numb 
feet struck against hard substance. He involuntarily^ 
even recklessly, allowed them to sink in the hope of 
touching bottom. 

He was on the shelving rock ! 

Still there were many yards to traverse, and he would 
have to carry her all the way, battling against the small 
but stubborn breakers. How he covered the distance, 
stumbling, falling, scrambling, he never could have told, 
but after what seemed an hour, he crept out of the 
breakers and fell exhausted on the rock, dragging Joan 
after him. Scarcely able to move his tired limbs, he 
pulled and tugged until they were well out of the baf- 
fled waters, and then he rolled over on his back and 
gasped for breath. 

It was the girl who first showed signs of recupera- 
tion. She raised herself to a sitting posture, support- 
ing her body with her hands, and studied the limp figure 
at her side through bewildered, half -understanding eyes. 
Her mind worked slowly, so slowly that a full minute 
passed before she realised that he was as motionless as 
death itself. Then her hand went out, timorously, 
dumbly, to touch the pallid face. The fear that was 
growing in her faintly beating heart was dispelled al- 
most instantly, quite before it was fully formed: he 
opened his eyes at her touch. For a long time they 
looked into each other’s eyes, and then a wry smile 
broke on his lips. 


92 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


‘‘ Gee,” he said, in very shaky tones, “ I guess you’ve 
got a right to think I’m an awful duffer.” 

‘‘I — I thought you were — Oh, Eric, you are not 
dead ! I am so glad — so glad ! ” she sobbed, clasping 
her hands to her breast. 

“I — 'I didn’t dare to look at you, J oan,” he murmured 
hoarsely, a spasm of pain convulsing his face. I was 
afraid — afraid you hadn’t come through all right. 
Oh, if you had not touched me when you did I should 
have died. I believe I held my breath for an hour. 
Thank God, thank God ! ” 

He sat up beside her, touched her hands, her face 
with his jSngers. A smile of relief, of actual glee, 
spread over his face like an illumination. He drew a 
great, deep breath, as she smiled wanly in return, and 
then staggered to his feet to shout and dance like one 
bereft of his senses. 


CHAPTER VI 


THE REVEALING OP SEVERAL INSTINCTS 

After his wild exhilaration had spent itself to some ex- 
tent, he set about doing sensible things, and uttering ra- 
tional words. 

It may not be such a laughing matter, after all,”’ 
he said lugubriously. “ We’re on a desert island.’^ 
His gaze swept the sunlit, tumbling sea. “ I’m afraid 
they can’t make us out from the lighthouse.” 

‘‘ I’m glad we’re here and not out there on that poor 
little boat,” she cried, getting to her feet and pointing 
off to the right. ‘‘Look! It’s through the channel.’^ 

The belly of the boat was to be seen bobbing on the 
waves far beyond the mouth of the passage. 

They watched it for a long time in silence and dread. 
A shudder swept over them and they clasped hands, 
looking again into each other’s dismayed eyes. 

“ God knows where that boat will go before it finds 
a resting place,” he murmured. “ I’m glad I made the 
try for shore.” He grinned. “We’d be well on our 
way to Europe — or maybe Africa, Joan, before night. 
Or Davy Jones’ locker, as old Jabez Carr would say.” 

“ I prefer Eddy’s Islands,” she said simply. She 
stood beside him, straight and slim, her drenched gar- 
ments clinging to her body as if glued, her soft brown 
hair plastered down and matted with the salt of the 
sea, her hat hanging limp and desolate over her shoul- 
der. “ Do you suppose they will send boats out to 
search for us, Eric? ” 

“ Of course they will,” he cried cheerfully. But 


94 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


there was no sail to be seen, strain their eyes as they 
would in the direction of the mainland. 

“ We might as well explore the island,” he went on, 
hiding the anxious note in his voice. “ It can’t be later 
than three o’clock. They’ll be here before dark, sure. 

'^Wait! Let me think a minute.” 

He stood there looking quizzically up at the sky. 
The June sun had resumed its boiling heat. The breeze, 
though brisk, was warm and soft, with the smell of the 
land and vegetation. 

‘‘ Our clothes will soon dry out in this sunshine,” he 
reflected aloud. “ We’re no worse off than if we’d just 
come out of the surf and were sunning ourselves on the 
beach. Maybe you’d — ” He hesitated in some embar- 
rassment. ‘‘ Maybe you’d like to be left alone for 
awhile, Joan, to — to tidy yourself up a bit.” 

She looked surprised and grateful. 

“ I’ll take a look about the island by myself, first, 
and be back in an hour.” 

“ I am a perfect fright,” she said disconsolately. 

“ No, you’re not,” he cried warmly. Then he left 
her. She watched him scramble off among the rocks 
above, and then, with a sigh of despair, began fumbling 
for combs in the hopelessly gnarled mass of hair. 

When he came back whistling from his detour of the 
bleak little island, on which grew not a single spear of 
vegetation, she was sitting composedly in the sun, her 
long brown hair hanging loose to dry, her wistful eyesi 
gazing out over the water in the direction of home. 
She had removed her shoes and stockings, and they, too, 
were drying near at hand. Somehow, you had the feel- 
ing that her shirt-waist and the duck skirt also had been 
wrung out and dried and pressed into an amazingly 
presentable shape. The eternal feminine in her! 


REVEALING OF SEVERAL INSTINCTS 95 


He, too, was barefooted. The rocks were growing^ 
hot beneath the rays of the sun. He walked with the 
tender care of one who finds discomfort in the act of 
putting down his foot. 

“ Good ! ” he exclaimed. “ That’s the way Mary 
dries her hair,” he added in the most matter-of-fact way. 

She pouted. Don’t you like it this way ? I’ll put 
it up at — ” 

“ Don’t ! I like it ! It’s gorgeous. Goodness, I’d 
never think you had so much hair. Vou^ — you can 
sit on it, can’t you? ” 

“No one sits on her hair,” she retorted, not quite 
sure whether to be pleased. “ Eric, I must have a drink 
of water.” 

His face brightened. “ There isn’t a sign of a spring 
on Little Eddy,” he said. 

“What!” she wailed. 

“ But,” he added triumphantly, “ I found a pool of 
rain water up there at the top, and covered it with a 
slab of stone, so’s it wouldn’t evaporate. Come along. 
I’ll show you over the island if — Gee 1 Doesn’t it bum 
your feet? ” 

“ Ooh ! I should say it does ! ” she cried, screwing 
her face into an exaggerated expression of pain. They 
were young. 

Together they picked their way to the pool he had so 
thoughtfully located and preserved. Then they sought 
the shade of the shelving rock and sat down to wait, 
their gaze turned ever shoreward, searching the horizon 
for sails or the smoke of tugs. 

The afternoon wore away, and the gloom of dusk 
began to settle over the blue waters, the evening mist 
creeping out from the shore to meet the shadows from 
the mysterious east. The castaways, so near to home 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


yet so far from its security, fell into a dull, brooding 
silence, their thoughts crowded with vague fears and a 
certain growing resentment toward those on shore, who 
were failing them. They could not understand why a 
whole fleet of boats had not put forth at once to search 
for them. Was not she the daughter of a Supreme 
Court Judge? Was not he the nephew of the great 
Horace Blagden? Why, then, were they being treated 
with such indifference, such inexplicable disdain? Could 
it be possible that no one cared what became of them? 
A thousand bitter thoughts assailed them as they sat 
there, staring out over the darkening sea. Neither com- 
plained aloud, and yet both had come to feel that they 
would not be found that night. 

The great revolving lantern in the distant lighthouse 
sent out its beams; the stars struggled through the 
scattering mists, and the solemn moon spread a soft 
glow over their world of desolation. The lapping of the 
waves, the regular swish of disturbed waters against 
the lonely reef were the only sounds that fell upon their 
ears. They were hungry, exhausted, despairing, out 
there alone on the breast of the sea. 

‘‘ Don’t be afraid, Joan,” he whispered, leaning close 
to her, infinite tenderness in his hushed voice. “ Noth- 
ing can happen to us to-night. They’ll surely come in 
the morning.” 

‘‘ I’m not really afraid, Eric,” she said, but there was 
awe in her voice. ‘‘ But isn’t it lonely ? Isn’t it awful 
to be alone out here? ” She crept a little closer to him. 

He quelled the tender impulse to clasp her in his 
arms, and hold her close to him so that she might sleep 
in security all the night long, with her head on his 
shoulder, her hand in his. A strange bashfulness came 
over him, surpassing anything he had ever felt before^ 


REVEALING OF SEVERAL INSTINCTS O'? 


It was a part of the infinitely gentle love that was in 
his heart; something that came out of the loneliness to 
show him how sacred, how pure love is. 

Very gently he bade her lean back and rest her 
head against his shoulder, and sleep. He would keep 
watch. . . . 

The moon passed slowly over the great dome above 
and disappeared behind the wall of rock that sheltered 
them. She had been asleep for hours. Then his 
tired eyes closed and their heads touched in sweet ob- 
livion. . . . 

The sun was shining brightly when he opened his 
eyes. 

A man stood over them, with a pitying, though satis- 
fied half-smile on his hard face. Eric blinked his eyes, 
and rubbed them, staring harder and harder. 

“ Why — why — ” he murmured in utter bewilder- 
ment. 

“ The babes in the woods,” remarked the thick-set 
man, with a satirical chuckle. “ Only it happens to be 
the sea instead of a wood. Do you know what time it 
is?” 

“ How did you get here ? ” demanded Eric, unable to 
conquer his amazement. The girl stirred and then sat 
bolt upright, staring at the sinister face of the man, 
whose hands were deep in his coat pockets, his legs 
spread far apart. 

“ I walked on the water,” was his sacrilegious answer. 
“ It’s ten o’clock. Four bells. Will you have your 
eggs fried or boiled.^ ” 

Eric managed to grin. Fried,” he said, conscious 
of a great hunger. Joan’s face brightened at once. 

“ Can we go home.'^ ” she cried. 

Sure, Miss Bright. My private yacht is lying off! 


98 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


here, with steam up. The dinghy awaits. Will you 
put on your shoes and stockings ? ” 

Joan blushed hotly and drew her feet up under her 
skirts. Eric had got to his feet and was running to 
the corner of the ledge to look for the craft. There it 
lay, in the lee of the reef, a smudgy, unlovely, chortling 
tug-boat, smoky and impatient, with half a dozen grimy 
individuals on board, all of whom were surveying the 
reef with the nonchalance of men used to disaster. A 
small row-boat, with a single occupant, puttered along 
the edge of the reef, waiting for the master who had 
come ashore. Eric sent up a shout and waved his hand. 
A voice at his elbow spoke. 

“ I thought I’d find you here. Everyone else is look- 
ing to the south of the Point, everywhere but the right 
place. Thinks I, they’ve gone out to sea. So we started 
straight out.” He chuckled. ‘‘It’s a joke on those 
wise chaps, — your uncle and the preacher and all of 
’em, looking in the bay and dragging, and praying, and 
cursing the luck.” 

“ How did you think of looking away out here, Mr. 
Carr? ” 

» Adam Carr closed one eye. “ I always have great 
luck in finding people where they don’t expect to be 
found,” he said enigmatically. “ I figured on these 
reefs, and telephoned out to the light-keeper, asking if 
he’d seen a capsised boat go by. He said he thought 
he saw one away out to sea yesterday afternoon. 
Father said to me right then and there that if you had 
half a chance you’d make one of the reefs. He seems 
to think you’re made of the right stuff, Mr. Eric Mid- 
thorne. And here we are. If you hadn’t been here, 
I’d have known where you were.” He screwed up his 


REVEALING OF SEVERAL INSTINCTS 99 


lips significantly and pointed downward with his stubby 
thumb. 

“ At the bottom of the sea,” said Eric, with a shud- 
der. 

“ Yes. But you’d have come ashore in time, I dare- 
say. Well! Here’s Miss Bright. Now we can be off. 
I’ll have the eggs fried in the engine room.” 

“ Did you really think about bringing eggs ? ” cried 
Eric. 

‘‘ Eggs and coffee,” responded the hard-faced man,, 
as he motioned for his oarsman to approach. 

“ What a horrid looking man,” whispered Joan, when 
his back was turned. 

I can’t make him out,” muttered Eric. “ He’s 
Jabez Carr’s son. I didn’t know he was in Corinth.” 

Later on, he deliberately put the question to Adam 
Carr: “Where did you come from, Mr. Carr.?*’^ 

They had finished eating their eggs and were sitting 
on the after deck with their strange rescuer. The tug,^ 
with a vast ado in its boilers, careened through the 
bright waves, leaving behind a long, almost unending 
trail of smoke. 

Adam Carr’s inscrutable face took on a new line or 
two. “ I guess you wouldn’t be any the wiser if I told 
you. It’s more than likely you never heard of the 
place.” 

“ dh, do tell us,” cried Joan, who had become deeply 
interested in the man. Despite his ugliness, despite the 
sinister face of him, he possessed a certain fascinating 
individuality that impressed her, as it did all young 
persons susceptible to curiosity. 

“ Ever hear of Tasmir.? ” he asked laconically. 

They pondered and shook their heads. 


100 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


“ I thought so. So you are none the wiser, are 
you ? ” 

They sheepishly admitted the fact. 

‘‘ Is it a city or a country? ” asked Eric. 

It’s neither,” he affirmed. He grinned in a most 
tantalising manner. Afterwards they were to learn that 
Tasmir was the seat of a Russian nobleman. 

“ Well,” said Eric, hiding his chagrin and resent- 
ment, ‘‘ I’m glad you came, no matter where you came 
from. It must have been like looking for a needle in 
a haystack, but stiU you found us.” 

I’ve never tried to find a needle in a haystack,” said 
Adam Carr reflectively. ‘‘ I’m sure it must be interest- 
ing. I’ll try sometime.” 

“ What a queer man you are, Mr. Carr,” cried Joan 
impulsively. He stared at her, and she shrank inwardly 
from the sardonic glitter in his eyes. 

He chuckled mirthlessly. “ I hope not,” he said. 

Queer men never get anywhere. Miss Bright. For 
instance, the fellow who looks for a needle, when there 
are so many other things to look for that are worth 
finding. You’d call him a queer chap, I’d say. I’ve 
found things in my time that would make looking for a 
needle seem the easiest task in the world. But,” he 
added, after a short pause, “ I still think if you’d lost 
a needle in a haystack and you just had to have that 
needle back in your sewing bag, I could find it for you 
if you made it worth while for me to do so.” 

“No one could possibly want a needle so much as all 
that,” she cried, perplexed by his humour. 

“ In any event,” said he, continuing in the same vein, 

a needle is a very handy thing to have about if you 
possess a trick camel.” 

Joan and Eric were thoughtful for a moment, ana- 


REVEALING OF SEVERAL INSTINCTS 101 


lysing the remark. They saw the point simultaneously 
and laughed aloud. 

“ It would have to be a very big needle or a very tiny 
camel,” cried she. 

“ We’ll leave that to the imagination,” said he, “ as 
we do most everything else that really doesn’t matter.’^ 

Eric’s eyes gleamed with a sudden discovery. 

“ What were you doing in Tasmir, Mr. Carr ? ” 

“ I was looking for a much sharper thing than a 
needle,” said Adam Carr. 

“ Did you find it? ” 

“ I did.” 

Eric’s voice thrilled with excitement. ‘‘ I know what 
you are now. Gee ! ” He gazed at the mask-like face 
in open-eyed wonder. You are a detective.” 

“ Sometimes I doubt it,” was Adam Carr’s extraor- 
dinary way of acknowledging his profession. 

A two hours’ run brought the tug to within hailing 
distance of the heterogeneous fieet of small craft, cruis- 
ing in the outer bay. There was no mistaking the busi- 
ness of these slow-moving boats, big and little. They 
were engaged in the hopeless, the imbecile task of drag- 
ging the bay, an undertaking inspired by the command 
of Horace Blagden himself. Not that Horace, who was 
a calm and sensible man, thought that the bodies could 
be recovered from the boundless, shifting waters by any 
such means, but that he regarded it as his imperative 
duty — you might say his personal prerogative — to 
make such a showing of resoluteness, such defiance of 
the utterly impossible, — that all Corinth would rise up 
and say in the same breath that he had at least left no 
stone unturned, if the simile may be applied to the 
case. 

Dozens of boats of all descriptions were plying the 


102 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


blue waters of the bay. Recognising the futility of 
their efforts, the crews lay back at ease, smoking and 
gazing complacently in quite the opposite direction from 
that which their business required: they looked lazily at 
the blue sky from the flat of their backs, instead of at 
the water in which it was reflected. They were being 
well paid for their efforts, which, after all resolved itself 
into a sort of special pageant arranged for the per- 
petuation of Horace Blagden’s name for indomitable- 
ness. ^ 

The tug blew its triumphant blasts, and even as the 
futile searchers awoke from their lethargy, hurried past 
them toward the docks, almost scornful in its haste. 
Behind trailed the astonished, irritated boatmen, a long 
line of odds and ends converging to a certain point. 

“ Call up my uncle’s house and let him know,” said 
Eric as they clambered to the pier. 

“ No,” objected Adam Carr, “ you’ll be sure to find 
him at the bank. A little thing like this wouldn’t dis- 
turb the habit of a lifetime.” 

Sure enough, Horace Blagden was at the bank. Over 
the telephone, in response to the message from the dock, 
he said: 

“ Indeed! Well, I declare! Tell Eric to go home at 
once. His aunt is worried. Who found them? Carr? 
Ask him to stop at the bank in a day or two. Thank 
you. Good-bye.” 

For two or three days after his return to the “ Giant’s 
Castle,” Eric was vaguely aware of a troubled, pre-occu- 
pied look in his sister’s eyes; dark circles began to ap- 
pear beneath them, and a certain pathetic wistfulness 
came into their depths when he seemed to be asking ques- 
tions of her with his own puzzled, but observing eyes. 


REVEALING OF SEVERAL INSTINCTS 103 


At first he attributed these signs to the worry and grief 
that must have tortured her on that eventful day and 
night, but as her very gladness in having him with her 
once more seemed tinged with a strange, unusual reserve, 
he was at last forced to believe that there was something 
else on her mind. Her joy in seeing him had been wild, 
almost to the point of delirium. She had sobbed in his 
arms for hours, it seemed to him, and she was reluctant 
to have him out of her sight. Her sombre plaintive 
eyes followed him everywhere, until he began to feel a 
haunting dread of them. 

She was paler than he had ever known her to be, and 
she was spiritless: a most unnatural condition for her, 
who was so gay and volatile and full of the joy of 
living. 

On the morning of the day selected by the committee 
for the awarding of the prize, he bluntly commanded 
her to tell him what it was that troubled her. They 
had been chatting with old Jabez and his son Adam, at 
the gate-keeper’s lodge, and she had failed utterly to 
respond to the jokes of the perplexed old man, who 
crustily demanded the cause of her “ grouch.” Eric 
noticed that Adam Carr studied her pale face with pe- 
culiar intentness. The detective had been telling him 
of his interview with Horace Blagden a few days be- 
fore. At the mention of Chetw 3 md’s name, the girl 
looked up with a quick, half -frightened gleam in her 
eyes. 

“ What is it, Mary ? Tell me,” pleaded Eric as they 
were walking homeward across the meadow. 

“ It’s nothing, Eric,” she protested, over and over 
again. 

“ There’s something wrong,” he insisted. ‘‘ I know 
it. You can’t fool me, girlie. What’s up?” He 


104 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


waited for a moment and then blurted out: ‘‘ What has 
Chetwynd been doing? ” 

She burst into tears and threw herself upon the 
ground at the foot of the great oak near the gate in the 
wall surrounding the Blagden place. He was down be- 
side her in an instant, pleading, begging, urging her to 
tell him everything. 

Then the story came out. 

‘‘ She is so cruel,” sobbed Mary. Oh, Eric, I don’t 
see how she can have the heart to think the things she 
does. I haven’t done anything wrong. I am a good 
girl.” 

He grew stiff and cold. Tell me,” he whispered. 

She turned over and lay flat on her back, her arms 
extended in the surrender to despair, her wet eyes staring 
at the green leaves above. 

It was Chetwynd,” she began j erkily . “ Oh, how I 

loathe him. He — 

What has that beast done to you? ” cried Eric, a 
fearful dread in his soul. 

“ Wait. I’ll tell you. The day you and Joan went 
out in the boat he stayed at home that morning, you re- 
member, with a headache, he said. He was lying on the 
couch in the library when I came in. He called me in. 
Aunt Rena was over town, shopping. Oh, Eric, I can’t 
bear to tell you.” 

Go on ! ” he grated, his fingers working. 

“ He asked me to sit down and read to him. It would 
rest him, he said. Pretty soon he asked me to stop and 
get a cold cloth for his head. When I — when I 
started to put the cloth on his forehead, he grabbed me 
and pulled me down beside him. He — he kissed me, 
Eric — oh, he held me as if his arms were of iron 1 I 


REVEALING OF SEVERAL INSTINCTS 105 


fought him, I tried to get away, I tried to scream ! He 
had not kissed me since we were little children, and oh, 
it was so different. He said he’d kill me if I didn’t 
keep still. But I wouldn’t keep still. I was so afraid 
of him. I thought I should die. At last I got away 
from him and ran out of the room. He followed and 
caught me in the hall. I was so weak, so dreadfully 
scared I could hardly stand, but I tried to beat him off. 
He was holding me tight and kissing me — Oh ! Oh ! ” 
She closed her eyes before going on. “ His breath was 
so hot, so awful of cigarettes. I was suffocating. I 
couldn’t breathe. He kept saying, over and over again, 
that it would be all right and that I must never tell. 
Then the hall door opened and Aunt Rena came in. 
I didn’t see her, at first, but I knew something had hap- 
pened, for he suddenly let go of me. I heard him say 
a horrid word, under his breath. When I saw Aunt 
Rena I flew to her and tried to tell her what had hap- 
pened. I begged her not to let him come near me. But 
— Eric ! Eric ! ” 

She stopped short, her hands clenched. He was trem- 
bling like a leaf, and his jaw was working like that of an 
animal. Veins stood out in his forehead. He was see- 
ing things red. 

Eric,” she moaned, ‘‘ Aunt Rena wouldn’t listen to 
me. She turned on me and pushed me away, calling me 
a ‘ hussy,’ a ‘ wretch,’ — Oh, worse than that ! I couldn’t 
make her understand. I couldn’t make her believe that 
I was not to blame. She accused me of everything 
dreadful. She said I was leading Chetwynd into — ^ 
to do wicked, low things. Oh, I can’t tell you all she 
said. I was so stunned, so helpless, I — I couldn’t be- 
lieve it was really true. When I begged him to tell her 


106 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


the truth, he only grinned and told me to ^ shut up and 
take my medicine.’ He was through with me. I 
couldn’t trifle with him. That’s what he said, Eric. 
And she believed him. She called him her poor boy, 
her angel — Oh, I shall never live through this, Eric. 
I want to die.” 

Eric could not utter a word. His lips moved, but 
only hoarse, inarticulate sounds came forth. She 
waited awhile, then went on, drearily. 

“ Aunt Rena wanted to turn me out into the street, 
but he objected to that. He said I was not altogether 
to blame. In a sneering sort of way, he made out as if 
he were willing to take all the blame. She called him 
noble, gallant, self-sacriflcing! You should have heard 
her. In the library he got her to promise not to say a 
word to Uncle Horace about it. If I left the house, he 
said, he would go, too. It scared her. She said it was 
best to keep it alMo ourselves. I was to be given an- 
other chance. And I was locked in my room because 
I said I would run away. She kept me there all after- 
noon, all through the storm, until Mrs. Presbrey came 
to talk to me. I — ” 

Her brother leaped to his feet, glaring about like a 
wild beast. 

“ Damn him! Damn her! ” he cried furiously, “ I’ll 
beat her brains out 1 ” 

He started toward the gate, staggering blindly. 
Mary sped after him, grasping his arm in frantic alarm. 

“ Let go of me 1 ” he snarled. ‘‘ Do you suppose that 
cur can treat you as he did and not pay for it? I’ll kill 
him I ” 

“ You must be sensible I Listen to me, Eric, dear. 
Listen 1 Don’t say such things. For my sake ! ” 

“ He’s not fit to live ! I’ve always hated him. It 


REVEALING OF SEVERAL INSTINCTS lOT, 

would serve Aunt Rena right, if I were to kill her angel, 
her darling. Let go, Mary 1 Just think of what he did 
to you.” 

But she clung to him in desperation, murmuring over 
and over again through white, paralysed hps: ‘‘You 
must not kill him. Thou shalt not kill! Thou shalt 
not kill!” 

“ What good does it do to preach? ” he cried angrily. 
“ Nobody pays any attention to the ten commandments 
nowadays. Why should I ? ” 

“ I do, Eric. I am not going to be what they say I’ll 
be. Why should you? Why should you commit mur- 
der? Do you want old Presbrey to say ‘ I told you so,’ 
when he goes to see you in the gaol? Do you want to 
be hung, as that man was in Ridgely County ? The one 
they always tell you about? Oh, I shouldn’t have told 
you what Chetwynd did to me. I wouldn’t have told 
you if I’d thought you’d take it like this.” 

The boy’s struggles and ranting ceased abruptly. A 
pallor spread over his face. The words “ murder,” 
“ hung,” “ Presbrey,” ran together in his brain, cre- 
ating a jumble out of which a cold, deathly calmness 
emerged. His mind began to work in an entirely dif- 
ferent direction. Somehow, inexplicable to him, a 
strange subtleness, a sharp cunning, took the place of 
blind rage and despair. He suddenly realised how near 
he had been to doing the very thing that would have 
proved their estimate of him even to their own cost. To 
Mary’s amazement, he broke in upon her renewed plead- 
ings, with a hoarse, unnatural laugh. 

“ Wouldn’t it be a horrible joke on them if I did 
commit murder, with Chetwynd as my victim? Good 
heavens, how Uncle Horace would look! He’d have to 
be surprised at that. And Aunt Rena would have some- 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


lOS 

thing to talk about all the rest of her life. And say ! 
Old Presbrey and Julia! They’d just die of shame to 
think that they hadn’t let me go my own way long ago, 
so’s I might have killed someone else before I got Chet- 
wynd.” 

“ Eric,” she cried in distress, “ how strangely you , 
talk.” 

He grasped her by the hand, moved by an impulse to 
run wildly. ‘‘ Come on,” he shouted. “ I’ve got to do 
something. I’ve got to wear it off. Let’s run! Let’s 
run to Stone Wall.” 

Stone Wall was the name given to a rocky stretch of 
coast beyond Todville, a secret and unlovely place where 
the surf beat with incessant roars or sighs, as the case 
might be, always pounding. A resting place for gulls, 
abhorred by man, useless and scorned as a place unfin- 
ished by the Creator. Thither fared all those who 
sought solitude for reflection, all those who contem- 
plated suicide, or those who pursued Love when it was 
least timid. 

Hours afterward, Mary and Eric came away from the 
moss-covered rocks of Stone Wall, and slowly made 
their way, through the dense thickets and across sweet 
meadows, back to the hated little gate in the Blagden 
garden wall. They were calm and strangely subdued. 
They had talked it all out, down there on the rocks, and 
they had found solace in mutually resigning themselves 
to the inevitable. 

It can’t be forever, Eric,” she had said. 

‘‘ No,” he said, gritting his teeth, “ God won’t let it 
go that far.” 

And so it was, that Eric found out what troubled his 
sister Mary, and why her eyes were full of dread. 

They passed by old Jabez on their way up. He was 


KEVEALING OF SEVERAL INSTINCTS 109 

leaning over the gate, blandly surveying them through 
the smoke of his pipe. 

“Where’s Mr. Adam, Uncle Jabe.^” sang out Eric 
from across the road. 

“ He went to New York on the two o’clock train,” re- 
plied the ancient. “ Quite sudden, too. But he’s alius 
doin’ things he didn’t intend to do ten minutes afore he 
does ’em. Dangdest boy I ever see.” 

The boy and girl dreaded the ordeal of dinner with the 
family. They would have to face Aunt Rena and Chet- 
wynd, and it was going to be hard for Eric to be polite 
and agreeable. But they were to be spared the pres- 
ence of Chetwynd, it afterward developed. 

Just before the dinner gong sounded, Eric met his 
aunt in the upper hall. He swallowed hard and then 
put as much heartiness in his voice as he could muster. 

“ Where’s Chetwynd, Aunt Rena ? ” 

“ He has gone to New York. Why? ” 

“ New York? In the middle of the week? ” 

“ Certainly. He has been half-sick for a week. A 
few days’ rest from the tedious work in the bank will do 
him a world of good. He’s to see Dr. Throgmartin to- 
morrow about those dreadful headaches.” 

“ The judges were to award the prize this afternoon,’^ 
observed Eric. “ Didn’t he care to wait and see how the 
contest came out ? ” 

She smiled complacently, comfortably. “ Oh, he 
wasn’t worried. He is so sure to win. And why 
shouldn’t he? He has made such a study of it.” 

“ I guess that’s why he has the headaches,” said Eric 
innocently. She looked at him again, very sharply. 

“ Where is Mary ? ” she demanded. 

“ In her room, I think. You needn’t question her. 
Aunt Rena. She told me what Chetwynd did to her, 


llio MARY MIDTHORNE 

and what you said to her. I want you to know that I 
know. It — ” 

“ Eric,” she said, ‘‘ I must ask you not to be so inso- 
lent. You must not stand — ” 

He held his ground, confronting her with set face and 
unwavering eyes. 

“ I do not mean to be insolent. Aunt Rena. But 
we’ve just got to understand each other. It needn’t go 
any farther, if you like. — I mean Uncle Horace isn’t 
to know. I just have to say this: Mary was not to 
blame. I know it, and down in your heart you know it. 
Chetwynd acted like a dirty brute, and you took his 
part. I don’t want him to apologise to Mary. I don’t 
want a word more said about it. I’m not afraid to say 
this to you, because I know and you know that if Mary 
went to Uncle Horace with that story, he^d believe her 
and he’d kick his own son out of the house. That’s just 
what Uncle Horace would do, and you know it. He 
knows Mary isn’t that kind of a girl, just as well as 
you know it. That’s all I have to say. The incident is 
closed, unless you choose to re-open it.” 

She stood there staring after him, with a limp lower 
lip, and the glaze of stupefaction over her eyes. He 
coolly descended the stairs and entered the library. 
Then she went into her bed-room and wept softly until 
dinner time. 

Mary found Eric on the porch soon after the meeting 
in the hall. 

“ Eric,” she whispered, in awed tones, “ Aunt Rena is 
crying in her room. I heard her as plain as any- 
thing.” 

“ It always does a woman good to cry,” remarked 
the young philosopher, with a hardening of the muscles 
in his jaw. 


REVEALING OF SEVERAL INSTINCTS 111 


Mary was looking down the tree-lined walk. 

“ Oh, goodness,” she cried, in dismay. “ See who’s 
coming to dinner with Uncle Horace.” 

Eric turned up his eyes and groaned with sepulchral 
devoutness. 

Horace was entering the gate with the estimable Pres- 
breys, both of whom were rigged up fit to eat — and 
that is really what they had got themselves up for. 

As they came up the steps, Mr. Blagden blandly ad- 
dressed the boy and girl standing at the rail above. 

‘‘ I suppose you’re waiting to hear who won the 
prize.” 

Eric began to tremble with a sudden, overpowering 
excitement. He was to heat* himself proclaimed the win- 
ner ! 

“ Did Eric win it ? ” cried Mary, her dark eyes glow- 
ing. 

Mild surprise revealed itself in Mr. Blagden’s eyes, — 
surprise tinged with pity. You would have thought 
that the bare suggestion that Eric might have won over 
his son was a distinct shock to his nerves. 

Mr. Presbrey smiled cheerfully for Eric’s benefit, as 
much as to say it wasn’t worth worrying over, or being 
disappointed about. 

“ Chetwynd won it, of course,” announced Horace 
with some austerity. ‘‘ It was the unanimous opinion 
of the judges that his designs were the best. Of 
course,” he went on magnanimously, laying his hand on 
Eric’s shoulder and turning to the Presbreys, ‘‘ we will 
have to admit that Chetwynd had a decided advantage 
over the other contestants, among them Eric. His work 
at college and his private instructions gave him — er, 
ahem ! — a rather unfair start, you might say. I spoke 
to the committee about it, but they called my objections 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


11 ^ 

absurd — er, ahem — or something of that sort. I have 
never felt that Chetwjnd should — ” 

Mr. Presbrey took the liberty of interrupting him. 
This was an instance when Horace was not only likely to 
excuse an interruption but might even welcome it. So 
Mr. Presbrey rose to the occasion. He put in a temper- 
ing protest. 

“ My dear sir, put that thought from you, once and 
for all. Chetwynd was certainly as eligible as anyone. 
All is fair in — er — love and war. Ha, ha ! Quite so, 
quite so! Ha, ha! You heard what Mr. Borden, of 
the committee, said. ‘ Amazingly clever and brilliant 
idea for a college boy, and well thought out.’ Those 
were his very words. I made it a point to remember 
them so that I might repeat them to Mrs. Blagden.” 

Horace smiled benignly, and then permitted a cloud 
to cross his face. He squeezed Eric’s shoulder in a con- 
soling grip and said : “ It’s hard on you, Eric. If it 
hadn’t been for Chetwynd, I am sure you would have 
carried off the honour. I can’t help thinking that I 
should have kept your cousin out of the contest.” 

“ It wouldn’t have been right, sir,” said Eric simply. 
He had swallowed hard before opening his mouth. 

“ I am sorry, Eric,” went on his uncle, kindly. 

Eric could hardly believe his senses. It was the first 
time he had heard that expression come from his uncle’s 
lips. Somehow, it had never entered his head that Chet- 
wynd’s father could be sorry for anybody. 

There were tears in Mary’s eyes as they followed Mr. 
Blagden and his guests into the house. She pressed 
Eric’s arm. 

‘‘ I just hnow his design wasn’t as good as yours, 
Eric,” she whispered. 

Oh, I don’t mind a bit, girlie,” he said bravely, de- 


REVEALING OF SEVERAL INSTINCTS 115 


spite the sore disappointment in his heart. “ It’s all 
in a lifetime.” A moment later, he muttered, more to 
himself than to her : “ I wonder when he worked at the 
design. He read novels all the time, so far as I could 
tell.” 

“ I suppose it will be on exhibition at the public 11 " 
brary,” said Mary, in grudging tones. 

“ I’ll see it to-morrow.” 

Mrs. Blagden came down the stairway, dry-eyed and 
eager. Even as she shook hands with the Presbreys, she 
flashed a questioning glance at her husband. 

“ Did Chetwynd get it.^^ ” she asked. 

Certainly,” replied Horace. 

She beamed. You must telegraph the news to himj^ 
Horace.” 

He playfully tapped her on the cheek with his slim, 
cool fingers. “ I already have done so, my dear.” 


CHAPTER VII 


THE BENDING OF HORACE BLAGDEN 

Late the next afternoon Horace received a telegram 
that puzzled him not a little. It was from Chetwynd. 
“Who won the prize Wire me at the Holland as 
usual.” 

What puzzled Horace was this: what had become of 
the telegram addressed to his son at the Holland half an 
hour after the awarding of the prize the day before 
But what would have puzzled anyone who knew Mr. 
Blagden at all well, was his action in sending a second 
telegram without inquiring at the telegraph office why 
the first had not been delivered. The thin line between 
the banker’s eyes seemed to have deepened perceptibly 
after the receipt of his son’s query. Somehow, he had 
the ugly notion that his first telegram was lying un- 
claimed at the hotel in New York. 

Mr. Blagden usually left the bank at four in the 
afternoon. It was his practice, not to say habit, to 
walk up the street to his club, — the only one in town 
that a gentleman could enter without glancing over his 
shoulder in all directions, — there to read the Boston pa- 
pers and engage in a subsequent game of cribbage with 
Colonel Harkweather, who also read the papers before 
doing anything else. On this particular afternoon, 
however, the Colonel not only read the Boston papers, 
but scanned the New York dailies and then took up the 
magazines. Finally he went home in fine disgust. It 
was the first time in months that Blagden had failed to 
appear. He was half-way-home before it occurred to 
114 


THE BENDING OF HORACE BLAGDEN 115 


him that the banker might be ill. So he entered a drug- 
store and telephoned to the house on the hill. He was 
not at all relieved to hear from Mrs. Blagden herself that 
Horace had never been in better health. If anything, 
the Colonel was more furious than before, considering 
himself a much abused man. He kept saying over and 
over again to himself that he was sorry Blagden was 
not ill: there was now no excuse at all for him that he 
could see. 

. But Horace sat at his desk much later than usual on 
this day, a troubled frown on his brow. He was not 
thinking of Chetwynd, as you might suppose, — at 
least, he was not devoting all of his thoughts to the boy. 
It seems there was a very grave cause for suspecting 
a former employe of dishonest practices during the last 
days of his employment in the bank. Within the past 
week, auditors in going over the books anticipatory to 
the appearance of the bank examiner, had unearthed 
discrepancies in the balances. There was a clearly de- 
fined shortage of nearly five thousand dollars, carried 
over for several months before coming to light. Care- 
ful investigation revealed the fact that the shortage was 
created about the time the assistant teller left the bank 
in order to make room for the president’s son. The 
young man himself, one John Payson, after losing his 
position, secured work in the offices of a Building and 
Loan Society, upon the unqualified recommendation of 
Horace Blagden. He remained in the bank for a week 
after Chetwynd was installed, instructing him in the 
duties of office. As near as could be reckoned, the em- 
bezzlement occurred immediately before or during this 
week of instruction. 

Nothing of the kind had happened before in the his- 
tory of Blagden & Co. Not so much as a penny had 


116 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


been feloniously taken from its coffers, not in all the 
sixty years of the bank’s existence. No wonder, then, 
that Horace was disturbed. 

To think that he had employed a man who could stoop 
to theft! And to think that subsequently he had recom- 
mended him to a position of trust! It was most upset- 
ting. 

With a promptness that suggested panic, Mr. Blag- 
den hired a New York detective and put him on the 
case. For a week or more, that worthy had been devot- 
ing his time and intelligence to a study of the past and 
present habits of the suspected young man, with the sur- 
prising result that, so far, he was unable to report to Mr. 
Blagden that they were anything but good. This, of 
course, convinced Horace that the fellow was an uncom- 
monly clever rascal. 

The detective was Adam Carr. 

On this particular day, Mr. Blagden sat in his private 
office long after the hour for closing, aimlessly fingering 
the telegram he had received from his son, but intently 
considering the day’s report from Adam Carr. It was 
beginning to enter his mind that Carr was not competent 
to handle a case so baffling as this appeared to be. He 
was wondering if it would not be a wise move to dismiss 
him and employ a Boston man who, it appears, had 
caught a very clever defaulter after chasing him for 
three years. But as Horace was a prompt man in 
everything, he was bound to admit that he was averse to 
hiring a man who was so slow as all that. He had talked 
it over with the cashier and three of the directors, and 
they had advised hiring the Boston man. That was an- 
other reason why he hesitated. 

Carr’s report for the day brought nothing new to his 
impatient mind. The ex-teller was behaving in a most 


THE BENDING OF HORACE BLAGDEN IIT 


circumspect manner. There was no evidence that he 
gambled, speculated, or kept a woman in New York. 
Payson had not visited New York in two years, so far as 
Adam Carr could learn, and Horace was forced to ad- 
mit that if he had a paramour at all, she must be in New 
York. She couldn't be in Corinth. 

The telephone on his desk rang. He put the receiver 
to his ear with mechanical precision and said: “Yes.” 
The voice that came out of the little black tube was so 
loud and vibrant that his eye-lids twitched with pain; 
he held the receiver a little farther away. It always an- 
noyed him to have anyone shout in his ear. A look of 
surprise followed immediately. Eric Midthorne was 
speaking. 

“ Yes, I am still here,” replied Mr. Blagden. “ What 
is it.?” He listened for a moment to the strident, ex- 
cited voice and then cut in with the curt remark : “ It 

isn’t necessary to shout. I can hear you. . . . Yes, 

I will wait here if it is important. But don’t be long 
about it. Come up if you must see me.” 

Three minutes later Eric burst into the room without 
so much as a tap on the mahogany door. 

“ Dear me, Eric, is this the way to enter a room .? ” 
demanded Horace, in that mild tone of reproof that 
never failed to hurt more than a sharp reprimand. 

Eric’s face was as white as chalk. He came directly 
to the desk, but many seconds elapsed before he could 
force words through his twisted lips. Horace stared at 
the boy’s convulsed face in actual surprise. 

“ Uncle Horace,” began Eric hoarsely, “ it was my 
drawing that took the prize. Do you know that.? It 
was my drawing. I have just seen it.” 

Mr. Blagden’s brow darkened ; his grey eyes narrowed 
and seemed to turn black as coal. 


118 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


“ What are you saying? ” he demanded. 

Eric struck the desk a violent blow with his clenched 
ifist. His eyes shot fire. 

“ It was my drawing I Chetwynd stole it ! ” 

Horace opened his eyes very wide. A look that no 
one had ever seen in them before grew as he stared, with 
parted lips, at him who uttered those awful words. He 
closed his lips suddenly to hold back the gush of ice-water 
that seemed to fill his mouth. He swallowed, and the chill 
spread throughout his body. He did not realise it at 
the moment, but afterwards he was to recall that he was 
experiencing the first touch of a blighting fear from 
which he was never afterwards to be free: the fear of 
Chetwynd. 

In an instant, he was himself again, a bit greyer than, 
before perhaps, but quite as austere. 

‘‘ What do you mean, sir, by striking my table in 
that manner? Try to govern yourself, sir, or leave the 
room.” He chose to resent the boy’s actions, rather 
than his words. Afterwards, in analysing his emotions, 
he came to acknowledge a shameful weakness in shrink- 
ing from the real attack. 

‘‘ I swear. Uncle Horace, so help me God, that the 
drawing sent in by Chetwynd is the one I made. I have 
never seen the one that bears my name. I never drew it. 
Oh, it was a dirty trick ! It was fiendish ! Uncle, 
you’ve just got to straighten it out. He took my draw- 
ing. I don’t know how or when, but it is mine that has 
his name on it over at the library.” 

Tears of rage and despair filled his eyes. 

Mr. Blagden had himself well in hand by this time. 

“ You are making a very serious charge against your 
cousin, Eric,” he said levelly. “ I cannot permit you to 
go on in this way. You — 


THE BENDING OF HORACE BLAGDEN 119 


“ But it is true ! ” cried Eric wildly. “ I swear it’s 
true!” 

“ Do not interrupt me. Why should I believe what 
you say? How could Chetwynd have come into posses- 
sion of your drawing? You kept it under lock and 
key ; you presented it to the committee with your own 
hands, did you not? You would hardly go so far as to 
accuse the honourable judges of substituting one draw- 
ing for the other, of placing my son’s name on your 
work, or allowing him to do so, if it could have gone 
that far.” 

“ But it is my drawing and it has his name on it. It 
wasn’t there when I submitted the design to Mr. Porter, 
the librarian.” 

“ Do you consider this a sportsmanlike manner in 
which to take defeat? ” demanded Horace sneeringly. 

“ I don’t consider it a defeat. Uncle Horace,” said 
Eric deliberately. “ My drawing won the prize.” 

Mr. Blagden’s stem gaze wavered ever so slightly. 

“ If you placed your drawing in Mr. Porter’s hands, 
then what, may I ask, inspires you to make this deliber- 
ate charge against my son ? It isn’t likely he could have 
^wished his name to appear upon it, to have it appear 
there as if by magic. This is not the age of Aladdin.” 

“ I can’t understand it any more than you, sir, but it 
is true, just the same,” cried Eric doggedly. “ Mr. 
Porter says that no one touched the drawings.” 

“ Then, will you be good enough to tell me how Chet- 
wynd could have done this thing you accuse him of 
doing? ” demanded Mr. Blagden sternly. 

“ I think it was done before I submitted the drawing,” 
said Eric. 

“ Oh,” was his uncle’s expressive comment. 

I wrapped it up carefully and put it in my drawer 


120 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


the day before I presented it. It was not unwrapped 
after that. Chetwynd was in my room that eveningi 
alone. Mary saw him there and he said he was looking 
for a scarf-pin I had taken from his room without per- 
mission. He — he told her I had no business going into 
his room, that he’d missed several things, and — and — • 
well, he as much as said I’d taken things that didn’t be- 
long to me.” 

Horace smiled with grim derisiveness. “ It is possible 
he had as much right to accuse you as you have to ac- 
cuse him. It seems to me his case is as good as yours.” 

“ I am not a thief ! ” 

“ He might say the same. Did he find the scarf- 
pin ? ” 

Eric flushed. “ He told her he found it. But he 
lied!” 

« Eric!” 

“ He lied! ” 

Mr. Blagden’s face grew deathly white and then 
turned purple. He sprang to his feet and advanced 
upon the boy, a furious glare in his eyes. 

You scoundrel ! You vilifier ! You unhung rascal ! 
How dare you come to me with such a story as this ? ” He 
choked, he appeared to be strangling. Eric shrank back 
aghast. No one had ever heard a blasphemous word on 
the lips of Horace Blagden, but now Eric was to listen 
to a torrent of wild profanity that would have shocked 
even the walls of a ship’s forecastle. He was seized 
with the fear that his uncle had gone mad, utterly mad. 

“ Uncle ! ” he cried, putting up his hands as if to 
shield himself from a blow. 

“ I could kill you wheie you stand, curse you,” hissed 
the man. A great light broke in upon him. ‘‘ Ah t 
Now I understand! Now I can see how a man justifies 


THE BENDING OF HORACE BLAGDEN 121 


himself for taking another’s life. By heavens, I know 
hovv sweet it would be to kill ! ” In his frenzy, he looked 
about for a deadly weapon. 

Then, as suddenly, his whole manner changed. He 
fell back against the table, his jaw dropping, an ex- 
pression of great horror crossing his face. 

“ Good God, help me ! ” he groaned, shaking as with 
the ague. What is it I have said? What is it that 
is in my heart? Murder? Oh, my God! ” 

He would have fallen had not the boy leaped forward 
to catch him by the arm. Mr. Blagden shook him off. 
Eric fell away, moving toward the door, ready to flee 
from this amazing figure, this unknown being. 

His uncle turned his sodden eyes upon him, and mo- 
tioned with a trembling hand for him to stay. 

‘‘ Stop 1 Don’t run away. Wait, Eric. I — I ask 
you to wait here until — until I — ” Whatever it was 
that he meant to say, the words were not uttered. 
Somehow Eric understood. He stood in the middle of 
the floor and watched his uncle stagger to the couch 
over against the wall, upon which he dropped as if 
every vestige of strength had deserted him. 

The minutes passed slowly. The picture remained 
the same. The wondering, half-stupefied boy in the 
middle of the room; the motionless figure on the couch, 
from whose lips ever and anon came two hoarsely whis- 
pered words : “ My God ! ” 

The shadows of dusk crept into the room through 
the high windows ; the waning light of the summer day 
looked in upon the strange tableau, and vague sounds 
from the street came but without the power to disturb. 
Somewhere, off in the deserted banking room, a watch- 
man was shuffling about and whistling. Eric waited for 
him to open the door and break the spell that had fallen 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


1^2 

over the president’s office. Nothing else, it seemed, 
could shake the fetters from his feet, or drive the warm 
blood back into his empty veins. Would the heavy- 
breathing figure on the couch never change its limp 
position.? Would the hand never be drawn away from 
the eyes it covered? 

At last, when the room had grown quite dark, Horace 
Blagden moved. The boy’s tense figure relaxed so sud- 
denly that his legs almost gave way. 

“ Answer the telephone, please,” said Mr. Blagden, 
his voice calm once more, but weak. 

The telephone had been buzzing for a minute or 
longer. Eric grabbed up the receiver. 

“ It is Aunt Rena,” he said hazily. ‘‘ She wants to 
know if you are ill, — why you are so late coming home, 

, Uncle.” 

“ Tell her I am aU right and will be there at once.” 

He arose from the couch, taller, more gaunt than ever 
it seemed to Eric as he saw him through the gathering 
darkness. 

“ Eric,” he said, from his position near the couch, 
‘‘ we will go home at once. Will you get my hat and 
cane from the closet? ” 

The boy hesitated. I can’t go home with you 
now. Uncle Horace. Not after what I’ve said to you.’^ 

There was another long period of silence. The man’s 
eyes were half-closed. 

‘‘ Eric,” he said at last, abject weariness in his voice, 
“ I am about to ask a great favour of you. Will you 
let this matter rest for awhile? I — I don’t know what 
came over me. It was not like anything that ever has 
happened to me before, not in all my life. I seem to 
have gone utterly out of my head. Wait! Please do 


. THE BENDING OF HORACE BLAGDEN 


noft speak. Listen to me. I am about to confess some- 
thing to you. When you first came into this room and 
said that — that Chetwynd had taken your drawing, I 
felt that you spoke the truth. I do not know why I 
should believe this of my own son, but — but I was no 
more able to help it than it was in my power to check 
the working of my mind. The horrible fit of anger, 
i — the dreadful language, I cannot explain. I do not 
understand it myself. Wait! Yes, I do understand. 
It was because I knew that you knew. It was because 
there was no one else on whom I could vent my rage 
and shame. I hated you, Eric, in those few moments, 
those awful moments. You will never know how I hated 
you. Perhaps you can understand why. I wanted to 
be proud of Chetwynd. You struck that pride a deadly 
blow. You were responsible for my awakening. I 
cried out as the sleeper does when he is rudely disturbed 
from the serenity of peaceful slumber — I cried out in 
anger against the awakening. I wanted to kill you. 
It was in my heart to do so. I love Chetwynd. He 
is all that life holds for me. Do you follow me? ” 

“ Yes, sir,” said Eric, stiU in a maze. 

“ It is not too late for me to save him. He shall 
not go down. By God, he shall be a man. I will lift 
him up, I will force him up. He shall not falter again. 
I have never failed in any undertaking. I will not fail 
in this. He must be absolved. There is no alternative. 
He must stand right with the world, with me, and wirth 
himself. Now, listen to me. Don’t let a word escape 
you. I thought it all out as I lay there on the couch. 
You can ruin him, perhaps, — or at least cast discredit 
on him. It is my duty to prevent that very thing 
happening. You have got to let this matter r^t.” 


124 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


“ But, Uncle,” began Eric. 

Mr. Blagden came a few steps nearer. Even in the 
dim light Eric could see the exalted light in his eyes. 

“ There is no alternative. He must be spared, so 
that I may help him while my hand is strong, while my 
love is great and capable of generosity. I shall have 
to ask you to say nothing about this until I have talked 
it over with him. There may be some mistake. I may 
be wrong in my conclusions. God knows that I hope 
I am. I would give all that I possess if I could be 
sure that you have lied to me, if I could drive out of my 
mind that first revolting doubt. But it has taken root, 
the seed of distrust is well-sown. I doubt my son. I 
can only hope that his side of the story may not be 
so dark as I fear it is. There may be extenuating 
circumstances.” A great hope took root in his soul, 
and he voiced it. “ It is not improbable that you tried 
to profit by his ideas. You may be as culpable as he 
is, in an indirect way. Stop! Do not defend yourself. 
It isn’t necessary. I am merely theorising, I recall 
that the two designs, as presented, are along the same 
general lines, the same thought is expressed. I noted 
a similarity. He may have been justified in keeping 
you from realising on his ideas and his experience. If 
he discovered in any way that you, being a better 
draughtsman than he, concluded to benefit by his ideas 
after coming into possession of them, either innocently 
or maliciously — ” 

Eric’s indignation burst its bounds. 

You know that isn’t true. Uncle Horace,” he cried 
out. ‘‘ I never saw his design, I never talked with him 
about it.” 

‘‘ What are you going to say if he declares that you 
did take — ” began Mr. Blagden harshly. 


THE BENDING OF HORACE BLAGDEN 125 


But he could not deceive himself. He bit his lip and 
turned his face away for an instant. 

“ No, Eric,” he went on, in an altered tone, “ I won’t 
put it that way. I am about to bare myself to you, 
and it is best that we should understand each other.” 

He paced back and forth across the room several 
times, his brow knitted, his hands clasped tightly behind 
his back. 

Eric felt a sudden, keen sense of jubilation. ‘‘ Are 
you going to have Mr. Presbrey talk it over with him.? ” 
he asked. 

Mr. Blagden stopped in his tracks, and stared at the 
questioner. 

“ No,” he said, bringing his lips together in a thin 
line. “ This is not a matter for Presbrey — at least, 
not at present. My boy, I am desperate, quite desper- 
ate. I don’t know why I should believe this thing you 
have told me, as I said before, but I do believe it. I 
am convinced that your drawing has won the prize that 
goes to Chetwynd. I don’t know how it all came about. 
He may not have been wholly responsible, but the fact 
remains that the drawing is yours. I am a fair man. 
I grant that it is your design. But, above all things, 
I am a Blagden. The name has been dragged in the dust 
by one member of the family, — your mother. That, 
of course, is something you could not have helped. But 
you can help me now in the effort to keep it from being 
further dishonoured. I shall expect you to do so. It 
is hard, I appreciate, for you to sit back calmly and see 
the prize go to another under the conditions. But that, 
my boy, is just what you will have to do.’* 

He spoke slowly, emphasising each word with a sort 
of snapping of his tongue as the breath escaped from 
the confinement of his throat. 


126 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


“ What do you mean? ” asked Eric, perplexed. 

“Just this; the situation must remain as it is. You 
have nothing to lose, while I, your aunt, even Chetwynd 
— ah, we have so much to lose. But three people know 
of this, I fancy — we three. Unless — ah, but I am 
sure you could not have been such a fool as to say any- 
thing to Mr. Porter before consulting me. I can see 
by your face that you did not go so far as that.” 

“ You mean,” said Eric, in low, uneven tones, “ that 
I am to let Chetwynd have the prize without a word for 
myself? ” 

“ Yes. That, and nothing else.” 

“ But I will not submit to — ” 

“ You will do just as I say, sir,” said his uncle calmly. 

As I have said before, it is for the good of the family. 
We must think of that, you and I, as we — ” 

“Why should I think of your family?” cried Eric 
recklessly. “ You’ve never thought of mine. You and 
Mr. Presbrey have read my mother and father into hell- 
fire. You haven’t left me anything to be grateful for. 
I won’t — 

“Stop, sir! Not another word. The cases are not 
parallel. We have a chance to save a boy’s soul, as 
well as his honour. It was not I who damned Mary and 
Philip Midthome. They saw to that well enough for 
themselves. But I did not mean to hurt you. Forgive 
me.” 

“I can’t forgive everything,” groaned the boy. 

“ You owe me a great deal more than you can ever 
realise. It was I, Eric, who took you and Mary by 
the hand and lifted you up from the dirt into which 
you were cast. It is I who have given you an honoured, 
a noble place in the world. And how? By means of 
a name that, of itself, stands unsullied. No man has 


THE BENDING OF HORACE BLAGDEN 12% 


ever questioned the name of Blagden. With that name 
to support you, you have become a credit and a — • 
yes, a blessing to Corinth. That name will carry you: 
to fields of greater honour and distinction. So long as 
it is behind you in the — er — you might say the flesh 
and blood, you have nothing to fear. I represent the 
name. I am the name. If I cast you off, the world 
will never pick you up. There you have it. Do I make 
myself clear.? ” 

It did not occur to Eric to resent the sublime egotism 
in this speech. At any other time he would have snick- 
ered, perhaps, for he had a rare sense of humour, but 
now he could not fail to be impressed by the seriousness 
of his uncle’s words. 

“ Am I to understand, Uncle Horace, that if I say 
anything about Chetwynd stealing my — 

“ Don’t use that word,” snapped Mr. Blagden. 

“ If I mention if,” modified the boy, “ you will kick 
me out .? ” 

“ I will not have anyone about me who wilfully, 
deliberately seeks to destroy the credit of the name I 


bear,” said the other, succinctly. 

“ How about Chetwynd.? ” 

“ Do you mean to argue all night with me? ” 

“ I should have some rights, sir.” 

“ You are too young to talk about rights. You will 
have them when the proper time comes. I will see to 
that. This little disappointment you’ve experienced to- 
day is but a trifle in the harvest of pleasures you may 
reap with my help and my friendship. Listen, Eric. 
I am very serious. I must insist that you look at this 
from my point of view. It means so much to me. It 
can mean very little to you. In a week, you will have 
forgotten the pangs of disappointment, while I could 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


never hold up my head again in Corinth if you were 
to tell this story to the world. People would believe 
enough of it to make life a hell for me. I could not 
beat it down. It would never die. And Chetwynd’s 
only chance would be gone. He can be saved. He 
^ must be saved. He is not a bad boy at heart. He — 
, he has been spoiled.” 

The man’s lip trembled, and his voice shook ever so 
slightly in the utterance of this humiliating confession. 

It was on the point of Eric’s tongue to blurt out 
the ugly tale of Chetwynd’s treatment of Mary, but he 
held back the words. This was an affair between him 
and Chetwynd. 

“ It’s hard, mighty hard. Uncle Horace,” he said, 
dropping into a chair and putting his face in his hands. 

“ We all have hard duties to perform. We aU have 
harsh debts to pay, my lad.” 

“ What are you going to say to Chetwynd, if I do 
keep still He will know that I know. It — it will be 
awkward.” 

“ I shall demand of him the truth. I shall compel him 
to go to you and admit his — er — his error. You 
may — 

“ I’d rather you’d not ask him to do that,” obj ected 
Eric, in stifled tones. “ It’s best not to do it. Let 
it go as it is. Say what you like to him. Uncle, but 
don’t let him come to me about it. I’ll — I’ll let it 
stand as it is, but I won’t have anything more added 
to it. That’s what it would mean if he tried to apolo- 
gise. We couldn’t get through with it gracefully, that’s 
aU.” 

Mr. Blagden placed his hand on the bent shoulder of 
the defeated boy. 

“ I am glad that you see it as you should see it, Eric, 


THE BENDING OF HORACE BLAGDEN 129 " 

You have taken the proper course, believe me. I shall 
not forget it. It is understood, then, that — er, ahem 1 

— that it goes no farther.'^ 

“ Yes, sir. I’ll stand for it,” in muffled tones. 

The telephone bell tinkled once more. Eric waited 
until his uncle motioned for him to take the message. 

His aunt was on the wire, asking what kept them at 
the bank. He informed her they were starting for home 
at once. Then she said something that brought a bit- 
ter, scornful smile to his lips. He waited until she was 
through, and then said : 

“ No, it isn’t that. Don’t be worried. Aunt Rena.” 

‘‘Will you get my hat and stick now? We will be 
late for dinner. Punctuality is a virtue, Eric, that is 
only surpassed by unselfishness. Ah, thank you.” 

He accepted his hat and cane from the hands of his 
nephew, carefully placing the one on his grey head and 
grasping the other firmly. 

“ Smith will straighten up the room. He must be 
wondering what keeps me here so late. It is quite dark. 
Dear me. Smith must be puzzled. By the by, Eric, I 
may go to Boston this week. It has occurred to me that 
I can, after all, arrange to take the room you want, 

— I might say covet, — in Cambridge for next fall. 
You remember I told you a few weeks ago it wouldn’t be 
possible on account of the expense. Well, I think it 
can be arranged.” 

“ Thank you. Uncle,” said Eric, rather lifelessly. 

They passed out of the building and descended the 
broad stone steps leading to the sidewalk. Street lamps 
were being lighted by men who made a pretence of hur- 
rying up and down the quiet thoroughfare. Corinth 
was still using the primitive gas-lamp on its streets, 
although the world at large had been illuminated by 


U30 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


electricity for years. It seems that Blagden et al. owned 
the lighting franchise for the town, and they believed 
in letting well-enough alone. At least, until they could 
get their price from the outside capitalists who were 
ready to put in a big electric plant. The Corinth Elec- 
tric Light Company supplied the homes and the business 
houses with light, but the municipality was content, per- 
force, to cling to its ancient friend, the lamp post, — - 
staid and trusted teetotaler that never went out nights. 

Uncle and nephew walked side by side up the narrow 
sidewalk, homeward bent. They were silent after that 
last magnanimous effort on the part of Horace, each 
wrapped in his own thoughts, not any of which possibly 
could have been pleasant. Eric found some satisfaction 
in the discovery of a weak spot in his uncle’s virtue, 
although the consolation afforded by this knowledge 
was not likely to provide a lasting sense of victory. 
His uncle contaminated! An hour before he would not 
have believed it possible. But now! Where would it 
end.? How far would an ill- wind carry that hitherto 
unswerving craft out of its established course.? What 
was Horace Blagden’s estimate of himself to be as time 
gave it a chance to develop.? 

As for the tall, gaunt man who strode beside him, 
what were his thoughts? What must they have been, 
to drag down his shoulders in this way and to lower a 
chin that never had drooped before? 

They entered the gate in the stone wall guarding 
the sanctity of the grey house on the hill. Not until 
then did Horace Blagden give sign of the thoughts that 
were burning in his brain. He stopped, checking Eric 
with a word. 

“ It did seem to me, Eric, on seeing the two draw- 
ings, that the one bearing your name was crudely done^ 


THE BENDING OE HORACE BLAGDEN 1311 


I could not understand it. I was amazed, and I must 
say I was gratified. Now I understand. You could 
not possibly have made the design attributed to you. 
But the thing that puzzles me most, is how Chetwynd, 
with his training and his extra preparation for the 
contest, could have produced such a miserable botch. He 
has had the best of instruction in New York. I — I 
can’t see why he did not do better.” 

Eric had his own private opinion, but he could not 
bring himself to the point of advancing it at this time. 
Mr. Blagden would find out soon enough, without his 
help. Still, the boy could not quell the secret joy that 
filled his soul as he contemplated the harsh times ahead 
of Chetwynd, and the bitter things that his uncle and 
aunt would have to swallow. The thought of this ac- 
tually revived his fallen spirits. The future would pay 
handsomely for the present; he could afford the gloom 
of to-day in view of to-morrow’s glory. 

Perhaps he didn’t consider it worth while,” he ex-* 
plained. 

Horace eyed him sharply. “ If he didn’t consider it 
worth while, why should he have gone to the trouble 
to — But, there, we were to say no more about it. He 
shall explain for himself. ,We can’t judge him un- 
heard.” 

They went forward. As they came into the shaft of 
light thrown out by the open hall door, the older man 
again stopped. This time he grasped Eric’s arm in a 
grip of iron. 

‘‘ Eric,” he began in a low, tense voice, “ you heard 
me say back there in the office that I could have killed 
you. Will you be able to appreciate my state of mind 
when I tell you now that it was in my heart to kill you 
if you refused to accede to my demands in this matter 


133 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


There is a revolver in my desk drawer. You were not 
to have gone out with that awful story on your lips. 
But that is not all. It would have died there in that 
room, for no one would been alive to repeat it.” 

‘‘What do you mean, sir?” asked Eric, a strange 
chill running through him. He looked up into the hag- 
gard face of his uncle as it stood out clearly in the light 
from the doorway. It seemed to him that Mr. Blagden 
suddenly had grown very old. 

“ I should have killed myself as well,” said Horace 
Blagden quietly. 

The boy stared at him in utter amazement. Sud- 
denly it was revealed to him what all this really meant 
to the head of the Blagden family. He was conscious 
of a choking sensation in his throat; there was a rush 
of moisture to his eyes. A great, perhaps unwelcome 
wave of pity for the man swept over him. 

“ It’s all right now. Uncle,” he murmured brokenly. 

As they entered the hall, Mrs. Blagden emerged from 
the library. She sent a swift, searching glance into 
Eric’s eyes, a glance expressing doubt, anxiety and no 
little antipathy. 

Eric smiled, a bitter, scornful little smile, the real in- 
wardness of which she was never to grasp. 

He could account for her uneasiness. He had but 
to go back for a few minutes to that second call on the 
telephone. She had said to him then, in accents of real 
despair and dread : 

“ You are not telling him of Chetwynd and Mary, 
are you? You can’t be such a beast, such a dog as to 
forget your promise to me. If I thought you were tell- 
ing him, I’d turn Mary out into the street this very 
minute, because I know your uncle would insist on it 


THE BENDING OF HORACE BLAGDEN 13S 


himself when he got home. Have you breathed it to 
him? Speak! Why do you hesitate? ” 

“ No, it isn’t that. Don’t be worried, Aunt Rena,” 
he had said. 


CHAPTER VIII 


WHEN FRIENDSHIP CEASES 

Chetwynd returned from New York two days later. 
He was closeted with his father for more than two 
hours, emerging with the air of a whipped dog, thor- 
oughly cowed, but filled with rage against Eric Mid- 
thome and his own father. A hang-dog look of defi- 
ance crept into his sullen face as the hours went by, 
hours that were bringing him up to the minute when he 
would have to face Eric in the library, just before the 
dinner hour, in accordance with the edict pronounced by 
his father. 

The two young men came face to face at six o’clock, 
just as Horace had planned they should do. It was 
part of Chetwynd’s expiation that he should confess 
himself to Eric. They were to have no listeners, no 
witnesses. Eric was surprised, a trifle dismayed, when 
they came upon each other, to all appearances in an ac- 
cidental manner. 

Chetwynd’s method of acknowledging his deed was 
<;haracteristic of him, but hardly what Mr. Blagden, in 
his justice, intended. He came close to Eric, his 
clenched hands stuffed deep in his trousers’ pockets, his 
lower jaw protruding and his heavy brows drawn tightly 
together. 

“You infernal sneak! You son of a — No, Father 
particularly requested me not to use that word, so I 
won’t say it. But you know what I mean.” 

■That was his way of confessing. 

Eric simply grinned, and turned away, leaving his 
134 


WHEN FRIENDSHIP CEASES [135 

big cousin more impotently furious than he ever had been 
in his life. 

The next morning, Eric came upon Adam Carr in a 
most unexpected manner. That dour-faced individual 
was seated on Judge Bright’s front porch when the 
young man appeared there to ask Joan to let him take 
snap-shots of her with the new camera his aunt had just 
given to Mary. Chetwynd had been commissioned to 
buy it in New York. Mary had cried over it, and, in 
the privacy of the back hall, declared to Eric that she 
would never use it because it would show them that her 
silence was purchaseable. 

‘‘ Well ! ” Eric cried out to Adam Carr. “ When did 
you get back? ” 

Adam’s sour smile appeared and faded in a breath. 
“ Why don’t you ask the question you really meant 
to ask ? ” he demanded amiably. “ What am I doing 
here? That’s your question. Well, I’m sitting here. 
Now I’ll answer one you just put to me. I got back 
yesterday, on the eleven-ten.” 

“ That’s the train Chetwynd came on.” 

‘‘ Did he ? ” asked Adam politely, but without inter- 
est. 

“ He has been in New York.” 

Strange I didn’t run across him there. New York’s 
such a small burg. You’re always seeing people you 
know. I hope you’ve not come up to take Miss Joan 
out for another swim.” 

“ I should say not! No more of that for me.” 

“ Judge Bright’s at home. I fancy he’d put in a 
kick.” 

“ Are you waiting to see him ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Oh? ” somewhat dashed. 


136 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


“ He’s waiting to see me.” 

He’s waiting.? I don’t understand. Where.?” 

“ That is, he’s waiting for me to put in an appear- 
ance.” 

“Well.? You’re here, aren’t you.?” asked Eric 
blankly. 

“ Yes, but he doesn’t know it. He’s waiting for me 
to ring the door bell. But I saw you coming along be- 
hind me, so I thought I’d stop and say howdy to you. 
How does your sister like her camera? ” 

Eric started. “ How did you know she had a new 
camera .? ” 

“ It came from Baxter’s, it cost twenty-seven dollars, 
and it has her initials stamped in gold on the inside of 
the box.” 

Eric opened “ the box ” as he called it, and looked 
inside. He saw the initials for the first time. They 
were so minute he could hardly distinguish them. He 
whistled in astonishment. 

“Well, I’ll be hanged!” he gasped, looking at the 
man in genuine wonder. 

“ You thought it cost sixty, didn’t you? ” 

“ That’s what it did cost,” cried the other. “ Aunt 
Rena told me so. You missed fire that time.” 

“ Who told her it cost sixty .? ” 

“ She gave Chetwynd sixty — By George ! I see ! 
He — he kept the balance .? ” 

“ Well, I wouldn’t put it just that way,” said Adam 
softly. “ He couldn’t keep something he didn’t 
have.” 

“ Don’t speak in riddles,” cried Eric. 

“ He had just thirty dollars when he went into Bax- 
ter’s. I daresay he kept the three dollars for a cab 
and breakfast on the train. He couldn’t keep the 


WHEN FRIENDSHIP CEASES 137 

extra thirty, for the simple reason that someone else 
was keeping it for him.” 

“ What the dickens — ” 

“ Now don’t resort to profanity. It’s a very bad 
habit for one to get into,” said Adam, with tantalising 
seriousness. 

With unseemly abruptness Eric sat down beside him 
on the porch seat. His eyes glowed with a great light 
of understanding as he gripped Adam Carr’s sturdy 
leg in his eager fingers, and almost whispered the ques* 
tion: 

“ I say, Mr. Carr, were you shadowing Chetwynd.'^ ” 

Adam appeared distinctly amazed. 

“ Well, well ! What put that into your head? ” 

“ Why should you be watching him ? ” demanded the 
other, tremendously excited. 

“ I wasn’t watching him,” said Mr. Carr, severely. 
“ I just happened to be in Baxter’s at the time. I 
couldn’t help hearing the conversation. I repeat your 
question: Why should I be watching him? Has he 
done anything wrong? ” 

Eric was baffled. Suddenly he renewed the assault. 

Then why did you say someone else was keeping 
the money for him? ” he demanded shrewdly. 

Adam’s face became positively sphinx-like. He 
looked out over the mass of rose bushes on the lawn. 

“ Can you keep a secret? ” he asked. 

“ Yes, yes! ” cried Eric. 

“ Well, some day I may teU you one,” announced 
Adam in his most confidential manner. 

“ Oh, pshaw ! ” 

You can begin keeping it right now.' There’s mcure 
to come. Don’t repeat this conversation.” 

‘‘ But can’t you tell me something — ” 


138 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


No. You see, it’s a secret. I never tell secrets so 
long as they are secrets. I’m like you in that respect.’^ 
The expression on Eric’s face betrayed the groping 
of his mind after a vague, indefinite thought that had 
flitted across his inner vision like a flash of light. It 
came and swiftly passed but it left an impression that 
developed into something tangible with a suddenness 
that caused him to gasp. 

By George ! ” he cried, searching the inscrutable 
face with gleaming eyes. “ Uncle Horace hasn’t set 
j^ou to watching Chetwynd, has he ? ” 

“7 — should — say — not! ” exclaimed Adam Carr, 
with an amazed look at the questioner. It was his turn 
to be puzzled. Mr. Carr was never surprised. “ Why 
{should he want to have him watched.'* ” 

Eric caught the cunning, eager gleam in the man’s 
eyes, and hesitated. There was something back of all 
this that he could not understand, and he began to feel 
the wisdom of keeping a close tongue in his head. After 
aU, who was Adam Carr.? What were his secret mo- 
tives? 

‘‘ I just asked, that is all,” he said quickly. The 
other merely grunted. 

“ I guess I’ll ring the bell now,” he said, arising a 
moment later. Eric started to ask another question, 
but thought better of it. He looked at the sturdy back 
and thick neck of the man who pulled the beU-knob, and 
thought not of a bull-dog, but of a bloodhound. There 
was something cruel and relentless in the back of the 
strange man, in keeping with the face of him. The boy 
experienced the sudden, uncanny sensation of an endur- 
ing closeness to Adam Carr, as if he had known him in- 
timately, in some form or another, all his life, and al- 
ways would know him. 


.WHEN FRIENDSHIP CEASES 


139 


Oddly enough, and concurrent with the strange im- 
pression, Adam turned after pulling the beU and said : 

“ I like you. We’ll be good friends for a long time, 
mark my word. Long as we both shall live, I hope.” 
j Judge Bright himself came to the door in response to 
the tinkling of the bell. 

; ‘‘ Ah, Carr,” he said, “ I’ve been waiting for you. 

Good morning, Eric.” 

He came out to the porch and shook hands with the 
youth, but did not offer to do the same with Adam 
Carr. Eric noticed the omission and wondered. All 
thought of it was driven from his mind an instant after- 
ward, when Judge Bright, stiU clasping his hand, bent 
his head slightly forward and looked with searching 
intentness into his eyes. For a moment the great jurist 
appeared to be studying the boy’s face as if it were 
something in which he sought to discover a flaw. Then, 
the hand pressure was renewed, more warmly than be- 
fore, and the eyes of the Justice grew kind and generous 
as he said, positive relief in his voice : 

‘‘ You’U find Joan in my study, Eric.” 

His manner puzzled the young fellow not a little. 
He had the feeling thaf^ this great judge of men had 
acquitted him of crime, as he might have passed judg- 
ment on a prisoner in the dock after hearing insufficient 
evidence against him. What could it aU mean ? 
Vaguely disturbed in his mind, he entered the house, 
leaving the two men on the porch. Looking back, he 
saw them descend the steps and walk slowly across the 
lawn toward a stone bench in the shade of the vine-cov- 
ered wall. 

“ Hello,” he said as he entered the Judge’s study, 
addressing the girl in pink, who sat in the window seat 
looking out over the lawn. Her attitude was one of 


140 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


extreme pensiveness. She sat with her elbow on the 
window ledge, her chin in her hand, one leg curled up 
under her, one small foot and ankle hanging free. She 
started as if aroused from a dream. 

“ Oh,” she cried, “ it’s you. I didn’t hear you come 
in.” 

I’ve been chatting on the porch with — I say, Joan, 
what is Adam Carr doing here ? What’s up ? ” He 
crossed the room and stopped beside her. She hesi- 
tated, and then made room for him on the seat. He 
was struck by the wistful, inquiring expression in her 
tender eyes. 

“ I don’t know, Eric. I wish I did,” she said. 
“ Father sent for him this morning. I — I — ” She 
looked away, undecided, and then returned her gaze to 
meet his questioning eyes. ‘‘ Eric, Mrs. Blagden was 
here yesterday afternoon with Mrs. Presbrey. They 
talked to me about — about that night we spent on the 
reef. I — I think Mr. Carr is here to see father about 
it.” 

His brow clouded. “ What could they have to say 
about that night.? ” he demanded. 

She found it difficult to reply at once. When she 
spoke it was in low tones, suggestive of tears that had 
come and gone. 

“ Mrs. Presbrey came expressly to tell me that it was 
very wrong to have gone out sailing with you, and that 
^ — that people are talking about us. She said the only 
way to stop the — the talk was for us to have nothing 
more to do with each other.” 

He was silent for a long time, cold to the marrow. 

“ Nothing more to do with each other.? ” he repeated, 
slowly. 

‘‘ Your aunt said she felt in duty bound to warn me 


WHEN FRIENDSHIP CEASES 


141 


against too close an intimacy with — with Mary. She 
said — ” 

“ What ! ” He began to see things blood red before 
his eyes. “ What I ” he almost shouted. 

“ I don’t believe a word she said. I am only telling 
you, so that you may know,” she cried hastily, alarmed by 
the expression in his eyes. “ She said it was the most 
humiliating thing she ever had to do in all her life, but 
that her conscience and her love for me prompted her to 
tell me that Mary is not always what she should be. 
She said she could never forgive herself if I fell into 
her ways, unsuspectingly. Oh, yes, and she said that 
she and your uncle were doing all in their power to curb 
a hereditary tendency to — Eric ! ” 

He had sprung to his feet with a moan of rage and 
despair, clapping his hands to his eyes as if to shut out 
some horrid, devilish sight. 

“ Oh, Eric, I shouldn’t have told you,” she cried 
tremulously, 

“ My poor little Mary, my little angel Mary,” he 
groaned. Suddenly he dropped down beside her again, 
clutching her hand in both of his. J oan, I’ll — I’ll 
do something dreadful to that woman. I’ll kill her. I’ll 
make her pay for this. She’s a liar. I’m going to take 
Mary away. I won’t let her stay in that cursed house 
any longer. Why — why, she’s as good as gold, Mary 
is. She hasn’t an evil thought in her whole being. 
You know that, Joan, don’t you.^ She loves you better 
than anybody in the world. Why should that devil 
of a woman try to hurt her like this ? I don’t see — ” 

“ Eric, listen ! What she said to me will never change 
my love for Mary. I told her so. You must think it 
cruel in me to have told you, but there is a reason. 
She said they were going to send Mary off to a private 


142 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


boarding school — to Miss Lex’s. You know what sort 
of a place it is. People send girls there when they can’t 
manage them at home. It’s like a reform school, a place 
for incorrigibles. Oh, Eric, she must not be sent to that 
dreadful school.” 

He set his jaw after the first spasm of dismay had 
gone out of his face. 

“ She’ll not go there,” he said, clenching his hands 
until the nails hurt the flesh. “ I know a way to stop 
that little scheme.” 

His soul glowed with triumph. He was thinking of 
the blow he could strike in return, a harrowing blow at 
the very heart of Blagden pride. 

Joan went on with nervous haste, purging her mind 
of all that oppressed it. “ Mrs. Presbrey said she hoped 
no one would ever hear that I removed my shoes and 
stockings. People wouldn’t overlook such immodesty. 
Why, Eric, you didn’t think I was doing wrong at the 
time, did you? ” She was blushing. 

‘‘ Mrs. Presbrey is a narrow-minded jay,” was his 
specific rejoinder. 

“ Your aunt went on to say that Mr. Blagden was 
coming up this afternoon to assure father he wouldn’t 
consider it a personal affront if he forbade you coming 
to see me, as you’ve been doing since we got home safely 
from Eddy’s Islands.” 

Eric’s smile was a grim one. “ I’ll bet my head he 
doesn’t come,” he said. « See here, Joan, what is it 
you are trying to get at? Don’t you want me to come? 
Are you afraid to be seen with me? ” 

“ No, no ! ” she cried. “ You know better than that.” 

“ Then you do like to have me come? ” 

“ Of course, I do. That is, if you care to come.’* 
The last was a maidenly after-thought. 


WHEN FRIENDSHIP CEASES 


143 


‘‘ Pm awfully keen about you, Joan,” he said, a warm 
flush mantling his cheek. The remark seemed to put 
an eft’ective curb on conversation. Neither could think 
of anything to say, and one of those silences ensued in 
^ which the heart-beats are painfully loud and the flesh 
creeps in delicious dread. 

“ Father is very fond of you,” she said at last, with 
an effort. 

I’ve always thought you didn’t like me,” he said, 
ignoring her remark. “ You seemed to despise me, up 
to the day we went sailing.” 

“How perfectly silly!” 

“ WeU, you did,” he insisted doggedly. 

“ I don’t like you a bit more now than I ever did,” 
she said calmly. 

It was an ambiguous confession and he did not grasp 
it at once. 

“1-7- I’m sorry,” he muttered. 

“ Well, it’s the truth,” she asseverated, conscious of a 
thrill of satisfaction in her own cleverness. 

He could think of nothing better to do than to 
shrug his shoulders, and deliberately change the sub- 
Iject. 

/ “ Well, leaving me out of it, are you going to cut 

Mary ? ” 

“ How can you ask.? ” she cried indignantly. “ I love 
her.” 

His face brightened. “Good! Just you be nice to 
her, and I’ll — I’ll die for you. Don’t let ’em turn you 
against her. And say, she isn’t going to Miss Lex’s, 
remember that.” 

“ You are not going to take her away.? ” she cried in 
alarm. 

“ Oh, but I’d like to,” he exclaimed. “ I must 


lU MARY MIDTHORNE 

think of a way. We can’t stay there. I won’t have her 
insulted by — ” 

“ Eric, listen to me,” she said earnestly. Her dark, 
serious eyes were fuU of compassion, but in their depths 
there was something that steadied him. ‘‘ You must 
not do anything rash. There is too much at stake. 
You can’t afford to take Mary away from — from a 
home, no matter how unpleasant it may be for her now.” 

“ But I will be in college next winter,” he groaned. 
“ Who will there be then to protect her from — them? ” 
He was about to say Chetwynd, for his cousin had been 
uppermost in his thoughts all the time. “Joan, it’s 
getting too hard to bear. I’m almost a man. I can 
look out for her any place in the world. I’ll give up 
college and work for her. I’ll work in the streets if 
that will — ” 

“ And you might compel her to take to the streets, 
too,” she said. The worldliness of this sage remark 
caused him to stare hard at her. 

“ You don’t think that? ” 

She veered. “ Let me tell you what I am going to 
propose to Mrs. Blagden. I am going to ask her to let 
Mary go to the Sinnox school with me next winter. It 
is lovely there.” 

“ By George, that would be great ! ” 

“We could room together. I know she can get in if 
Me. Blagden writes to Miss Drake, the principal. 
Mary’s nearly sixteen. If Mrs. Blagden only will con- 
sent.” • 

Eric struck his knees with his clenched fist to em- 
phasise his next remark. “ She’ll consent, all right. 
She’ll just have to. That’s a great idea, Joan, and it’g 
fine of you to think of it.” He heaved a sigh of re- 


WHEN FRIENDSHIP CEASES 145 

lief. ‘‘ It will make things easier all around. I’ve been 
worried half to death about leaving her.” 

“ But you must give up the thought of taking her 
away with you,” she said earnestly. “ I have been af raid 
that you might really run away sometime. You must 
not do that, Eric. I couldn’t bear it.” 

‘‘ Why — why, you are crying,” he exclaimed. 

“ I couldn’t bear it,” she sobbed. Still he did not 
recognise the true motive behind all her distress and 
anxiety. He could not see the heart of her as it lay 
swimming in the moist, tell-tale eyes. He only knew 
that she loved Mary. “ Don’t mind me,” she said, dry- 
ing her eyes and smiling. ‘‘ I’m so silly.” 

“ Oh, if I only could tell you — if I dared to — ” he 
stammered in the despair of wild adoration. 

Like a sensitive animal, she took alarm, and shrank 
back into the comer of the window seat. Her instinct 
told her that there was danger in the air, — the joyous 
danger she courted but still was afraid to face. 

“ You are the prettiest girl in the world,” he went 
on, ‘‘ and the nicest,” he added hastily, fearful of the 
way she would take the outburst. 

She frowned, — a very pretty frown, but desolating. 
He took it to be a sign of her displeasure. He had gone 
too far. He had offended her. Did he but know it, how- 
ever, there would have been no frown if the last three 
words had been left unsaid. 

Joan, from her position, saw her father and Adam 
Carr leave the stone bench and walk together toward the 
front gate. 

“ Mr. Carr is going,” she said, singularly interested 
in what was going on out-of-doors. He leaned for- 
ward to look, and accidentally their hands touched. 


146 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


They drew them apart as if each had come in contact 
•with a burning coal. They laughed convulsively, in 
apology. 

“ He’s a strange man,” said Eric hastily, covering 
his confusion. Then his face clouded. “ I say, your 
father looked at me in a mighty strange way out there. 
Just as if I had been doing something I shouldn’t have 
done.” 

She hesitated, uncertain whether to add to his distress 
of mind or to complete what she had set out to do in the 
beginning. 

“ Your aunt told him yesterday that she is afraid of 
you, Eric,” she blurted out wrathfully. She says 
you once tried to kill Chetwynd, and that sometimes 
she catches a — a murderous look in your eyes when she 
offers even the slightest reproof or advice.” 

Eric laughed. He was able now to enjoy the situa- 
tion. “They expect me to slaughter someone before 
I die,” he chuckled. 

“ She was very serious about it,” protested Joan, dis- 
pleased by his levity. “ She says that Mr. Presbrey 
works with you by the hour, trying to — Please don’t 
laugh ! ” she cried, pouting. “ I shan’t tell you any- 
thing more.” ',[■ 

“ I can’t help laughing,” he said. “ Don’t begrudge 
me the chance to laugh at Mr. Presbrey. Why, Joan, 
he gets me off in a corner and prays over me as if I 
were the original sheep that was lost from the other 
ninety and nine. I’m half-way to the bad place all the 
time, according to him, and he’s in a continual scrap 
with the devil over my remains. But I have good news 
for you: Mr. Presbrey says I’ve got a splendid chance 
to get into heaven in spite of all that. All I have to do is 
to follow him. He’ll get me in, slick as a whistle. He’s 


WHEN FRIENDSHIP CEASES 


14T 


going to get Mary in, too. He’s got Uncle Horace 
and Aunt Rena waiting at the gate right now. All they 
have to do to get in is to die. Chetwynd, too.” 

“ You shouldn’t scoff,” she cried, but smiled in spite 
of the reproof. 

“ Well, I’m glad that your father doesn’t believe I’m 
as bad as they make me out,” he said soberly. “ He — > 
he shook hands with me twice out there, and told 
me I’d find you here. That shows what he thinks of 
me.” 

Her face brightened, a glorious light suffused her 
eyes, her lips parted in a warm, glad smile. 

“ Oh, I am so glad, Eric. I — I was afraid he might 
be prejudiced against you. You know how much store 
he sets by Mr. Blagden. And he can be very hard when 
he wants to be. He — he has to be heartless some- 
times, my father does.” 

Eric returned her smile with one equally enveloping. 
Suddenly the shackles of fear and self-restraint fell 
away from him. His heart leaped up and in one swift 
rush overcame the timid brain that stood in its way. It 
swept all resistance aside and triumphed over reason. 
The look in her warm, sweet eyes did the work. With 
a half-cry, he slipped from the seat and sprang to her 
side. Before either really knew what had happened his 
arms were around her and he had kissed her, eagerly, 
bravely, full upon the lips. 

“ Oh, Joan, Joan,” he whispered. She did not move, 
but closed her eyes, and appeared to have stopped 
breathing. Then he felt a dreadful fear stealing over 
him. As the chill of shame and remorse began to creep 
over him, the slender body quivered in his arms, and her 
hand caught one of his as it was about to be withdrawn. 
She convulsively pressed it to her lips. Then her eyes 


148 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


opened and looked into his. Tears swam in them as he 
looked down, dazed and unbelieving. 

“ Eric, Eric,” she whispered, so softly, so timidly 
that he could hardly hear the word. “ You dear, dear 
Eric.” 

He was dumb with joy. His lips moved, but the 
words remained smothered in his throat. She turned her 
head on his breast and began to cry softly. Physical 
expression of love was new and bewildering to them. 
They were amazed, frightened, abashed. 

“ Are — are we going to be sweethearts ? ” he asked, 
out of the maze of strange sensations. He only knew, 
or felt, that something vital was expected of him in this 
wonderful moment, something decisive, and honourable, 
and exacting. Her hand-clasp tightened with involun- 
tary fervour. She hid her shamed face more completely 
in its resting place, and a delicious pink covered her 
cheek and the little ear that was left exposed. He re- 
peated the question, almost breathless with the eager- 
ness that filled his soul, tingling from head to foot with 
the exquisite agony of a joy that was growing so full 
and commanding that he could understand it, even as 
he doubted his senses. 

The faintest nod of the head answered him. He 
caught his breath, striving to find an outlet for his feel- 
ings. The words came in a whisper: 

“I — I’ve had dreams, but they were never like this. 
Oh, I’ve dreamed it a thousand times. I never thought 
it could be real. Are you sure, Joan? It isn’t because 
I’m so strong you — you can’t get away, is it? You 
are not angry — ” 

“No, no ! I — I’m not angry, Eric,” she cried softly. 
“Oh, I’m so ashamed. You — you don’t think I’m 
bold and — ” 


WHEN FRIENDSHIP CEASES 


149 


He kissed her again, triumphantly. The eternal 
man in him was solving the problem. Victory! Con- 
quest! That is the man of it. 

“ I didn’t believe it could ever happen,” he cried, 
aglow with bliss. “I — I don’t see how I ever got up 
the courage to do it. Why, until now, I thought 
you liked me just on Mary’s account. What funny 
things girls are. And you’ve been liking me, — like 
this, — all the time.? ” 

“ Not like this,” she said wistfully, looking up for 
the first time and meeting his eyes. “ I’d never thought 
of this.” 

“ We’ll be sweethearts forever, — he hesitated and 
then uttered the word for the first time, shyly, awk- 
wardly, — “ darling.” 

“ If you will always like me,” she murmured. 

‘‘ You won’t let anybody come between us, will you.? ” 
he demanded. ‘‘ You’ll not let them change you with 
their stories about me.?” 

“ As if they could ! ” she exclaimed. “ Oh, Eric, you 
must not do that! Suppose that father came in, or one 
of the maids. Please, please ! ” 

I’m so happy I can’t help — That reminds me, 
Joan.” He took his arms from around her and stood 
erect, his face very serious. 

« I’ve got to speak to your father,” he announced, 
but with an utter absence of determination. “ A gen- 
tleman never asks a girl to marry him until he’s seen — ” 

She started up, all a-flutter. “I — I haven’t said I’d 
marry you,” she cried. “ You haven’t asked me. We’re 
too young to talk about — ” 

“ There you go ! ” he cried bitterly. 

‘‘ You mustn’t be foolish, Eric,” she pleaded. “ Don’t 
tell father, not just yet. He would laugh at us. And 


150 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


he might put a stop to everything, — to our seeing each 
other and all that. Don’t you see? There’s plenty of 
time. It is all going to be so sweet and dear, to love 
each other in secret, — just between ourselves, with no 
one to say whether we may or may not. You — you 
might spoil everything by going to him. Goodness, I i 
hope he didn’t peep in here a minute ago ! ” She was 
in a great state of trepidation. 

For that matter, so was Eric. He glanced toward 
the door with considerable anxiety. 

‘‘ Perhaps — perhaps it’s best to do as you say,” he 
admitted in some haste. “ Not that Fm afraid, of 
course, but — well, it might spoil everything right 
at the beginning. Your father just couldn’t under- 
stand.” 

She clasped his arm in her eagerness, “ It will be so 
lovely to have this beautiful secret all to ourselves,” she 
cried, in guarded tones. 

“ But we are — engaged, aren’t we ? Say we are, 
Joan,” he pleaded. 

“ Yes, yes,” she half-whispered. 

“ And you’ll marry me some day ? Swear it ! ” 

“ Oh, Eric, it — it seems so unusual.” 

“You will?” 

“I — I suppose so.” 

He was not satisfied. Men never are. His brow 
clouded with the darkness of jealousy. 

“ And you won’t have a thing to do — ever — with 
any other fellow? Promise, Joan.” 

“ Of course I won’t,” she cried, and he was content. 

‘‘ Aunt Rena’s got her heart set on you for Chet- 
wynd,” he said, suddenly conscious of another agreeable 
triumph over his aunt. 

“ I hate him.” After a moment she went on, her 


WHEN FRIENDSHIP CEASES 


151 


brow clouded with annoyance. ‘‘ She says Chetwynd 
wants me to join their excursion down the St. Lawrence 
next week. She’s giving it for him and there will be 
five or six of us.” 

“ It’s the first I’ve heard of it,” he said stolidly. 

She flushed painfully. “ Mrs. Blagden didn’t — that 
./ is, you and Mary were not mentioned.” 

“We wouldn’t go, anyway,” he cried hotly. 

“ It’s too bad,” she murmured plaintively. “ The 
trip is a lovely one.” 

“ Are you going? ” 

“ Father says it would be nice if I — but I won’t go 
if you don’t want me to.” 

He was fair and generous. “ You must go, Joan. 
I won’t mind. I’m — Hello! There’s Judge Bright 
in the hall.” 

When Judge Bright entered the study a minute later, 
the sound of his footsteps having warned them in good 
time, he found Eric sitting on the edge of a table at 
some distance from Joan. If he observed the sup- 
pressed excitement in their manner, he gave it no 
thought, while they, on the other hand, were miserably 
certain that their heart-throbs betrayed them. 

The Justice’s grave, dignified face wore an expres- 
sion of profound thought, which lightened materially as 
the girl called out to him to come over and sit in the 
window with her while Eric tried out the new camera on 
them. 

“ Snap us in this posture, Eric,” he said genially, sit- 
ting down beside her and drawing the dark head to his 
shoulder. 

Her eyes were sparkling. Eric nervously began 
fumbling with the camera. His fingers were all thumbs. 
She laughed and he made more of a mess than ever. 


152 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


“ The light’s bad,” he floundered helplessly. “ Can’t 
we go out in the yard.'’ ” 

“ I’m afraid I can’t spare the time,” announced the 
Judge. His brow clouded. “ And I shall have to ask 
you two to let me have the study to myself for awhile. 
I’ve an important matter to — er — to think over. I’d 
spoil the picture, anyway.” He arose, patting the re- 
straining hand as he did so. ‘‘ By the way, Eric, is 
Chetwynd at the bank to-day ? ” 

“ I think so, sir,” replied the boy, repressing a start. 

‘‘ Joan, before you go out, will you telephone and ask 
him if he would mind coming up this evening after din- 
ner, — if he isn’t otherwise engaged?” 

Her face fell. “I’d — I’d rather not telephone to 
Chetwynd, Father.” 

Her father smiled. “ Just tell him that I want to see 
him for a few minutes. Put it that way, my dear.” 

She went to the telephone in the hall, rebellious but 
relieved. The Judge turned to Eric, who stood hard by, 
undecided what to do next. 

“ I’ve known Adam Carr since he was a little boy, 
Eric. I saved him from drowning when we were lads to- 
gether. You may be sure he would accept no thanks 
from me for what he did last week for Joan — and you. 
He is extremely fond of you, because you are good to 
his old father. And let me tell you something, my boy : 
he is a friend worth having.” 

“ I am sure of it, sir.” 

“ Chetwynd will be here at half -past seven. Father,” 
said Joan from the doorway, a moment later. 


CHAPTER IX 


TRAGEDY 

As Eric walked springily down Blagden Avenue an hour 
later, his heart thumping with happiness, he came face 
to face with Mr. Presbrey. In a twinkling his spirits 
fell. The sight of the excellent gentleman brought 
him back to earth. He had been in heaven for two 
hours or more. Strange, that a minister of the gospel 
should snatch one out of heaven and restore him to the 
sinful earth so rudely, but that is precisely what hap- 
pened. Seeing Mr. Presbrey just then was like taking 
a sudden, unexpected plunge into icy water. Beautiful, 
warm vistas of delight faded away, and in their place 
stretched all the ugly, unkind scene he had managed to 
forget in his new environment. Once more came into 
active reality the bitter, depressing chill he had shaken 
off for the moment. Mr. Presbrey’s friendly, spiritual 
smile at once suggested a hundred bitter wrongs and 
heart-aches; disillusioning realities, cruel charges and 
spiteful innuendoes. It revived all the mental anguish of 
the past fortnight, to say nothing of the indignities 
that had been spread out over the whole of his life with 
the Blagdens. The world turned black and harsh for 
him in the flash of an eye. Across his horizon lay the 
shadows of Chetwynd and his mother, with the less 
sinister shape of his uncle behind them. 

Mr. Presbrey accosted him, halting as the young man 
came up. He planted the ferule of his gold-headed 
ebony cane firmly in a crack in the brick sidewalk, and 
said: 


153 


MAKY MIDTHORNE 


164 

Ah, you will be late for luncheon, my dear friend.^^ 
He glanced at his watch. ‘‘ It’s half after one.” 

It occurred to Eric, and not for the first time, that 
Mr. Presbrey seldom missed the opportunity to censure 
him, even though he meant to be kindly and consid- 
erate. 

“ Yes, Mr. Presbrey,” he said quietly, “ I am afraid 
so. I must be hurrying along.” 

“ You shouldn’t keep your aunt waiting,” said Mr, 
Preshrey genially, lifting his cane high enough to poke 
it at the youth in playful reproof. 

(Chetwynd, who now and then uttered something 
pointedly original, once remarked that Mr. Presbrey 
carried a cane so that occasionally he could be in touch 
with the earth.) 

Eric hurried on. He looked back once, with a frown 
on his face, taking in Mr. Presbrey’s stiff back as that 
gentleman moved off up the street. Mr. Presbrey looked 
back in the same instant. 

“ He’s always looking to see if I’m in the narrow 
path,” thought Eric, rancour in his soul. 

He and Mary spent the greater part of the sultry 
afternoon on Stone Wall, where she dawdled over a 
novel while he tried to concentrate his mind on one or 
two studies that had been haunting him since the spring 
examinations. But his thoughts were of other things, 
both harsh and pleasant. Thoughts, delicious thoughts 
of Joan were uppermost in his mind. Then, there was 
the cruel disappointment in connexion with the prize, 
of which Mary was in ignorance. She had not seen his 
drawing. He had not told her of Chetwynd’s foul 
trick. He could not, in justice to himself, relate the 
story of his amazing interview with their uncle, nor 
would his tender heart allow him to repeat the unkind 


THAGEDY 


news he had obtained through Joan. He secretly was 
debating in his mind the wisdom of revealing Joan’s 
rosy plans for the coming school-year. Persistent re- 
minders of Adam Carr’s strange words and his even 
more mysterious attitude also forced their way through 
the labyrinth of thoughts that confused and distressed 
him. 

At last, in a burst of confidence — perhaps it was pity 
he felt for the sweet-faced girl who sat beyond him all 
unconscious of the fact that he watched her with trou- 
bled eyes, — he told her of Joan’s plan, but emphatically 
enjoined silence on her part for the time being. Mary 
was in ecstasies. She forgot her book and her troubles, 
and he laid aside his own affairs while they discussed 
hopes, possibilities and obstacles. 

Toward evening they strolled homeward, botK 
wrapped in the cloak of optimism that lies only on the 
shoulders of youth. Arriving at the upper gate to the 
Seaman’s Home on Lord’s Point, they paused to shed 
some of their effulgent warmth on ancient Mr. Carr, 
whose sunset was clouded. 

The old man was feeding the squirrels; a dozen of 
them scampered about his feet, or clambered over his 
person in frank security. A certain listlessness marked 
the old man’s movements. The sprightliness was gone 
from the wrinkled, nut-brown face. He delivered the 
peanuts in a dreary, disinterested way, and forgot his 
erstwhile cheerful cluck. 

“ Hello,” called out Eric from the gate. The old 
man looked up. His face lighted in an instant. 

Come in,” he called out to them. “ Where have 
you two been a-keepin’ yourselves for the last week? ” hrj 
demanded irascibly, as they approached. He scattered 
the nuts broadcast and arose to welcome his visitors. 


oc. MAiiY MIDTHORNE 

The cause of his depression was revealed : he had missed 
':hese cheery young sprites, and he had been lonely. 

“Did you miss us, Uncle Jabe.? ” asked Mary peni- 
.ontly. 

“ You’re a pair of demed ingrates,” announced Jabez 
•;ourly, belying the joy that shone in his sharp little 
eyes. “ I might ’a’ died right here a dozen times over 
and you wouldn’t ’a’ knowed anything about it — er 
cared.” 

“ But you didn’t die,” said Eric calmly. “ Say, isn’t 
tiiat a new squirrel.? I’ve never seen him before,” point- 
ing to a shy, alert little fellow on the edge of the group. 

“ Third time he’s been around,” said Jabez, im- 
mensely gratified. “ I was wondering if you’d notice 
liim.” 

“ Where’s Mr. Adam ? ” asked Eric abruptly. 

“ Ain’t you seen him ? He went out along Stone 
Wall a couple of hours ago, lookin’ for you, Eric. He 
must ’a’ missed you.” 

“We were near Bud’s Rock all afternoon. What did 
he want ? ” There was a trace of excitement in Eric’s 
voice. 

“ You might as well ask me how fer it is to Jupiter,” 
cplied Jabez serenely. “ He’s the demdest feller I ever 
- e fer keeping his business to hisself. Hello ! Yender 
iiti comes now. I reckon he’s been huntin’ fer you out 
there all afternoon.” 

“ That’s strange,” said Eric. “ He’s usually pretty 
good at finding what he looks for.” 

Adam Carr slowly approached from the direction of 
Stone Wall. A vague, indefinable feeling of unrest 
came over Eric, as of one who is being spied upon. 
Something seemed to tell him that Adam Carr had been 
watching him all the time they were out on Stone Wall. 


TRAGEDY 


15T 


“ Well, he’s found you, ain’t he? ” observed Jabez, in 
his driest way. Give Adam time and he would find! 
what he looked for, that was Jabez’s inward conten- 
tion. 

‘‘Must you be going?” asked Adam, coming up to 
them and drawing his pipe and pouch from the pocket 
of his blue serge coat. The visitors had made no move 
to depart, although, strangely enough, both were think- 
ing of it at the very moment he put the question. 

“ Goodness ! ” murmured Mary in wonder. 

The grim face of the newcomer relaxed into a smile 
of self-praise. He took note of the curious expression 
in Eric’s eyes. 

“ No, I’m not a mind-reader,” he said, answering the 
unspoken question, but offering no reason for his de- 
duction, which, after all, was not so wonderful when 
you stop to consider that the Blagden dinner hour was 
close at hand. 

“ It’s our dinner-time,” explained Eric, arising. 
“ Say, Mr. Adam, you’ve got me guessing about certain 
things.” 

“ What, for instance? ” 

“ Oh, I fancy you know.” 

“ I was getting some high-class legal advice,” said 
Adam, again answering an unspoken question. “ By 
the way, did you happen to see your cousin out along 
Stone Wall an hour or so ago? ” 

“ No,” cried the Midthomes. 

Adam leaned back in the rustic bench and blew smoke 
into the air. “ I just wondered, that’s all,” he ob- 
served. 

“ Was he out there? ” demanded Eric. 

“ He asked me to meet him out there at four-thirty. 
Guess he forgot about it,” said the other, more com- 


158 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


placently than you would expect of a man who had 
taken a long walk to no purpose. 

As a matter of fact, he knew that Chetwynd had 
gone to the rocks to keep the appointment, but had 
slipped away on discovering that his cousins were there 
before him. Whatever his business with Adam Carr 
may have been, he did not choose to have them as possi- 
ble witnesses to the transaction. 

“ What did he want to see you for? ” asked Eric 
eagerly. 

“ He didn’t say,” replied Adam Carr soberly. 

“ What is the mystery ? ” begged Eric. 

There’s no mystery about it,” said the other truth- 
fully. It had ceased to be a mystery so far as he was 
concerned. “ You’d better skip along now, or your 
aunt will jack you up for being late to dinner.” There 
was finality in the remark, and Eric knew him too well 
to pursue the subject. A few minutes later, he and 
Mary took their departure, old Jabez accompanying 
them to the gate. 

“Adam’s a mighty curious feller,” the old man ex- 
plained apologetically. 

They glanced over their shoulders at the motionless 
man on the bench. He had stopped smoking and was 
resting his elbows on his knees, staring intently at the 
ground, apparently oblivious to all that was going on 
around him. 

At the dinner table that evening, Chetwynd was un- 
usually sullen and preoccupied. He chafed at delays 
and in two or three instances spoke sharply to the wait- 
ress when she seemed to be longer than necessary in 
transit from pantry to dining-room. For a wonder, 
his father did not rebuke him for this display of irrita- 
tion, but was painfully silent himself. Eric, covertly] 


TRAGEDY 


159 


■watching his cousin, was struck by the worn, peevish 
look in his face, and the hard line between his brows. He 
did not fail to observe that Chetwynd deliberately 
avoided looking at him. 

From time to time, he shot a singularly penetrating 
glance at Mary, whose gaze seldom left the plate before 
her. Eric felt his blood boil. There was a menace in 
every glance that Chetwynd bestowed upon the girl. 

Immediately after the meal came to an end, young 
Blagden took up his hat, and with a curt word or two to 
his mother, left the house. Eric knew whither he was 
bound. 

He heard his cousin come in at nine o’clock or a little 
after, and go quietly to his room, without stopping in 
the library where his parents were reading. Later on, 
Mrs. Blagden passed down the hall and tapped on her 
son’s door. 

‘‘ Have you another headache to-night, dear.? ” he 
heard her ask, after she had tried the knob of the locked 
door. He could not catch Chetwynd’s reply, but her 
next words were significant. “ WeU, don’t snap my 
head off, please.” 

Eric lay awake for hours, speculating on what had 
transpired at Judge Bright’s house. The early return 
home of Chetwynd was satisfying in one sense, but dis- 
turbing in another. The visit plainly was not of a so- 
cial nature, nor friendly, it might be reasonable to sur- 
mise. He could not have been at Judge Bright’s for 
more than half an hour, a circumstance which made it 
plain that there was no pleasure in the visit. 

The conviction grew in Eric’s feverish mind that the 
Judge’s summons to Chetwynd was the result of the in- 
terview with Adam Carr. 

In that case, there was something sinister behind it. 


160 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


Eric was disturbed by the dread that, whatever it wasj 
he, and perhaps Mary, were to be dragged into it. 
Enough had been said by Joan to convince him that 
they were under discussion. Could it be possible that 
Judge Bright had called on Adam Carr to investigate 
the stories told by his aunt and Mrs. Presbrey? Was 
the half-hour’s interview with Chetwynd a part of the 
effort to get to the bottom of these ugly stories? The 
occurrences of the last few days had thrown young Mid- 
thome into a wretched state of uncertainty and doubt. 
As he lay there that night, wide-eyed and troubled, he 
could see naught but foreboding shadows ahead of him. 
It was impossible to go to sleep with that sinister chill 
creeping through his veins, a chill that turned him sick 
with the nausea of dread. Near dawn he dropped off 
into a fitful doze, but was aroused at seven by his uncle, 
who never missed calling the entire household at that 
hour, breakfast being set for seven-thirty. 

After breakfast, in a state of wretched uncertainty, 
he made his way, but not without some diffidence, to 
Joan’s home, driven by the desire to find out how he 
stood with her since the mysterious visit of his cousin. 
There was something disquieting in the fact that Chet- 
wynd did not appear for breakfast, pleading a head- 
ache. Mrs. Blagden had her coffee and toast in her 
son’s room, which left the two Midthomes to breakfast 
alone with their uncle. Not more than a dozen words 
were uttered in conversation during the meal. Mr. 
Blagden, a shade greyer in the face than yesterday, it 
seemed to Eric, read the morning paper while he drank 
his coffee in sharp, jerky little sips. Mary, in a covert 
glance, made the discovery toward the end of the meal 
that her uncle was staring blankly at the print before 
him, without reading a word. She watched him for a 


TRAGEDY 


161 


minute or more; his eyes did not move. It was a cir- 
cumstance worth mentioning to Eric, but she quite for- 
got it when her brother announced that he was going 
over to Joan’s. 

Moreover, just as they were leaving the table, Martha 
came in to say that Judge Bright was waiting to speak 
with Mr. Blagden at the telephone. Their uncle closed 
the library door when he went into that room to answer 
the call. 

Eric’s reception by his shy, unpractised sweetheart 
swept away all doubts and misgivings, and restored him 
in large measure to the state of bliss he had developed 
the day before. His relief was so great that he quite 
forgot his fears. 

Still, when he left her after an hour in the garden, he 
was to experience a decidedly unpleasant shock on finding 
Judge Bright and Adam Carr seated together on the 
front porch. As he passed them, they greeted him 
cheerily, but he was conscious of the fact that their gaze 
followed him as long as he was in sight. So vivid was 
this impression that in order to escape the scrutiny he 
turned into a side street when but a block from the 
house. 

He carried a message from Joan to Mary. His sister 
was to go out for a long drive with Joan in the Brights’ 
phaeton that afternoon, when the two of them were to 
talk over the Sinnox school project. There was addi- 
tional consolation for him in Joan’s news that her father 
had called up Mr. Blagden during the morning to in- 
quire when he could see him on a matter of importance. 
She was sure that it had to do with the school project, 
for he had promised her at breakfast that he would take 
it up with Mr. Blagden at the first opportunity. Her 
father was to call at the bank on the following day, Mr, 


163 MARY MIDTHORNE 

Blagden setting the time. So, she was sure, it would 
be all right. 

She did not see Chetwynd when he called the evening 
before. 

That afternoon Eric, more or less at peace with him- 
self, if not with the world, took his books and sought the 
quiet solitude of Bud’s Rock, a shady, obscure spot 
overlooking Stone Wall, and not far removed from the 
unfrequented outer road which skirted the coast. The 
main-travelled highway was farther inland by a mile or 
more. But few travellers used the narrow, abandoned 
road along the cliff. 

Bud’s Rock itself was in the heart of a miniature 
wilderness. It lay black and dank, moss-covered and 
dripping, at the edge of the woodland, almost com- 
pletely hidden by the thick underbrush and trees that 
surrounded it. Here it was always cool and shady. At 
the base of the huge boulder there was a tiny plaza of 
vividly green grass, smooth and soft, and sweet with the 
smell of earth. Through the trees ahead, one had a 
clear view of the sea beyond the rugged, broken line of 
the cliffs, on which no vegetation appeared. A quar- 
ter of a mile away, the surf drummed noisily against the 
obstinate waU of rock, while down upon the bleak inter- 
vening space the sun sent his rays with such scorching 
intensity that if one crossed the rocks at midday it was 
at the risk of blistering the soles of his shoe-clad feet. 

Years before, Eric had come upon this tiny plaza, 
and it always had been a favourite idling place for him. 
He went there to read, or to dream, or to think. Times 
there were when his thoughts and dreams were unpleas- 
ant ones, full of bitterness and resentment toward those 
who badgered him, but more often than not he found 
solace at the foot of Bud’s Rock. No one disturbed him 


TRAGEDY 16S 

in this lonely nook. It was quite as if it were a domain 
of his own. 

A little to the left of the rock, a deep, thin ravine 
slashed through the rocks and descended by tortuous 
wriggles to the sea itself. He had gone down there at 
low tide, and it was like going into a tomb. At high 
tide it would have been a tomb for anyone who ven- 
tured. 

On this particular afternoon, Eric was strangely op- 
pressed by the dreary waste of rock and water before 
him. He held faithfully to the work in hand, but there 
were moments when he found himself contemplating the 
unattractive vista with something like dread in his heart. 
Never before had he felt this way in looking at the fa- 
miliar, though unlovely tract. Somehow, he was con- 
scious of a strange dread in being alone there. More 
than once he wished that Mary were there to keep him 
company. Mary, or — blissful alternative — another 
whom he knew. 

He had the sensation, now and again, that the sea 
was making ready to leap over the lofty wall, to rush at 
him while he sat there helpless with his back against the 
face of Bud’s Rock. Then there was the grewsome 
feeling that up through the moaning ravine, a slimy 
monster from the deep was crawling slowly but surely, 
bent on crunching him in its mighty jaws. More than 
once, hearing a rustling sound near by, he had cast a 
quick glance in the direction of the ominous slit in the 
earth,^ — never ominous till now, however. 

He looked at his watch at five o’clock. With a start 
of relief, he realised it was time to go home. Mary 
would have returned from her drive with Joan. She 
would have much to tell him. He gathered up his notes 
and books, and rose to stretch himself. 


164 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


As he came to his feet, he saw Chetwynd Blagden 
standing on the rickety bridge that spanned the ravine, 
fifty yards or more below Bud’s Rock. His back was 
toward Eric, and he appeared to be watching the road 
in the direction of Todville. His tall, herculean frame 
leaned against the rail of the bridge, and his arms were 
folded across his chest. 

In considerable wonder and no little dismay, Eric 
watched him in silence, not with the intention of spying 
upon him, but because he could not make up his mind to 
venture forth and accost him in this lonely spot. The 
presentiment of evil was still uppermost in his mind. 
This, then, was the physical proof of impending danger : 
for something told him that Chetwynd personified the 
ominous thing that the ravine was to produce, after all. 

How long had his cousin been standing on the bridge.? 
Where had he come from, and for whom was he in wait- 
ing.? Adam Carr! He was to meet Adam there, hav- 
ing failed him the day before. That was it. But, that 
being the case, why had he failed to see Eric, as on the 
previous occasion? His eyes had been sharp enough 
yesterday; why were they dull to-day? 

Eric looked about for a way to leave his nook without 
disturbing the watcher below. Unfortunately, there 
was no means of reaching the road except by way of the 
path leading almost to the bridge itself. He realised 
that, in all fairness and honour, he could not stay where 
he was, a witness to the palpably clandestine meeting of 
the two men. That was an act he could not forgive in 
anyone else, so why should he be guilty of it himself? 
There was but one thing left for him to do : walk boldly 
down the path, speak to his cousin, and continue his 
peaceable way homeward, before any serious friction 
could result. 


TRAGEDY 


165 


He knew that Chetwynd was ready and eager for the 
chance to quarrel. There had been a plenty of evi- 
dence of the fact during the past few days. His cousin 
had glowered at him with positive hatred in his eyes 
ever since his return from New York. There was a 
score to be settled, and Eric knew it. It would not be 
settled with boxing-gloves, but with bare fists. He was 
not afraid of Chetwynd, but he was especially reluctant 
to invite a physical clash at this time. His own blood 
was hot with long pent-up rage, and he knew that the 
slightest spark would set it aflame. The result might 
prove disastrous in more ways than one. This was the 
time for reason, for temporising, although every sinew 
in his body ached to be at this cheat and bully. 

Just as he was on the point of starting down the slope^ 
an action on Chetwynd’s part stayed him for a moment, 
curiosity being responsible for his momentary hesita- 
tion. 

Young Blagden drew a letter from his pocket, read it 
with unmistakable eagerness, and then, to the watcher’s 
amazement, pressed the tinted sheet to his lips. There 
was apparent reluctance in the young bully’s next act. 
He looked at the missive for some moments, as if in 
doubt, and then, with a shake of his head, drew a match 
from his pocket, struck it on the rail, and set fire to the 
comer of the tender epistle, which he held in his fingers 
until it was quite consumed, before dropping it into the 
ravine. 

In the next instant, as if impelled by some telepathic 
force, he whirled and looked up the slope to where Eric 
was standing. For a full minute, the two young men 
remained motionless, staring at each other. Then Eric 
began slowly to descend. 

As he emerged from the shrubbery at the base of the 


166 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


rock, he saw Chetwynd advancing upon him, his face 
white with passion, his eyes stark with alarm and appre- 
hension. 

‘‘You infernal sneak!” he hissed through his rigid 
lips. “ So you’ve been spying on me, have you.?^ I’ll 
iix you for that 1 ” 

As he spoke, he drew back his arm, and the next in- 
stant a jagged rock came whizzing through the air, 
aimed with deadly interest at Eric’s head. A dozen 
paces separated the young men. Eric had expected 
some such treachery as this, and was more or less pre- 
pared for it. He leaped nimbly to one side, and the mis- 
sile grazed his ear. In the same moment he stooped 
and swept up a stone at his feet. Chetwynd, slower 
than his adversary, was reaching down for another. 

“ Drop it 1 ” yelled Eric. “ Drop it, I say ! I’ll let 
you have this right in the face, if you pick up that 
rock. You know I can do it, so look out!” 

Chetwynd had cause to remember Eric’s ability to 
throw straight. He dropped the stone and covered his 
face with his arm, crouching back against the rail- 
post. 

“ Here ! ” he shouted hoarsely. “ Look out what 
. you’re doing ! Don’t you throw that rock at me, you 
murdering cur. Do you want to kill me? ” 

Eric’s pale face relaxed into a sardonic grin. 

“ You’re a fine one to talk, you are,” he cried, his 
voice trembling with excitement. “ What did you do 
but try to kill me just now.^^ I’ve a notion to let you 
have this, just to — ” 

“ Don’t! ” yelled Chetwynd, in fresh alarm. 

“ Well, you stay where you are, then, you infernal 
biTite. I don’t want to have any trouble with you. 
I’m going home. I wasn’t spying on you, and you 


TRAGEDY 


16T 


know it. Don’t move from where you are, Chetty, or, 
by thunder, I’ll knock your head off.” 

“ You can just bet you’re not looking for trouble 
with me. If you didn’t have that rock in your hand I’d 
come over there and kick you clear over Bud’s Rock. 
You are a sneak and a spy and a lying one at that* 
And I’ll just get you for it some day.” 

He was trembling with rage. If Eric had not held 
the upper hand over him at that moment, murder would 
have been done on the lonely spot. 

“ I don’t want to talk to you, Chet,” said Midthome 
resolutely. “ You can’t drag me into a fight, much as 
I’d like to have it out with you. I’ve got good reason 
for beating your brains out, and you know it. You let 
me alone and I’ll do the same by you. If there is no 
other way. I’ll take Mary and go away from Corinth. 
I won’t stand anything more from you. We’ll let 
things go as they are, if you are willing, but you’ve just 
got to let me alone. I’ve not told Uncle Horace what 
you did to her, but I did tell him you stole my drawing 
the — ” 

“ It’s a lie ! ” cried Chetwynd. “ I made that draw- 
ing. You dirty sneak, you tried to work that guff off on 
father. But I proved to him yesterday that it was my 
drawing that took the prize. He knows it now. He 
believes you had a purpose in lying — ” 

“ You proved it! ” cried Eric, aghast. “ How could 
you prove it ? ” 

“ I proved it by mother, if that will satisfy you. She 
saw me working on it for days,” snarled the other, 
showing his teeth. 

Eric glared. “Did Aunt Rena say that?” he 
gasped. 

“ Yes. I went to her about it, against father’s wish* 


168 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


She told father all about you, — what a miserable liar 
and sneak you are, and — ” 

“ She lied ! ” cried Eric fiercely. 

“ Here ! Don’t you go saying my mother is a liar. 
I’ll — ni— ” 

‘‘You’re both liars. No! Wait a minute. I don’t 
believe Aunt Rena told your father that. She’s as mean 
as dirt to me, but I don’t think she’d do that. I’m 
going to ask Uncle Horace.” 

Chetwynd’s blood-shot eyes shifted. “ You’d better 
keep your mouth shut,” he growled. “ Father’s prom- 
ised he’d overlook it if nothing more was said about it.” 

“ Uncle Horace knows you’re a thief,” cried his 
cousin, “ and I know it, and I’ve got to help shield you, 
too. We’ve all got to protect the blessed Blagden 
name. What a joke it is!” 

Chetwynd’s face was of a greenish white. He looked 
over his shoulder as if in mortal fear that these words 
had been overheard. “You keep your jaw closed,” he 
hissed. 

“ What’s Adam Carr been watching you — began 
Eric, but the look of absolute terror in his cousin’s face 
stopped him. 

“ Adam Carr ! ” he gasped, his jaw sagging. “ Has 
he been — ” He pulled himself together with a mighty 
effort, gulped a couple of times, and then tried to grin 
derisively. “Ah, come off! You can’t pull that ofip 
with me. Adam Carr’s on a bank job for father.” 

“What did Judge Bright want to see you for last 
night.? ” 

“ Say, I’m not here to answer questions for you,” 
roared Chetwynd. “ You’re nothing but a pauper, living 
off of us, anyhow. You and Mary, both of you. 
You’re the scum of the earth. If you didn’t have 


TRAGEDY 


169 


father back of you, nobody with any decency in ’em 
would look at you. You know what your father was 
and what your mother was, so why — ” 

“Take care, Chet! Don’t say anything* more,” 
warned Eric, white to the lips. 

“ And you’ll both come to the same end,” went on the 
other ruthlessly. “ Mary ! Ho, ho I She’s a fine one 
to talk. She got caught with me, and she had to lie out 
of it. She put it all on me. And I was man enough 
to stand for it, too.” 

“You lie!” 

Chetwynd’s eyes gleamed with a sudden malicious joy. 
He gave vent to a nervous, uncertain laugh. 

“ I do, do I? Say, you saw me bum a letter just now, 
didn’t you.f^ Well, it was a note from Mary. Shefs 
crazy about me. I can do what I please with her, and at 
any time. She’s no better than any of the rest of her 
sort. If you think she’s so blamed good and virtu- 
ous — 

“ If you say another word. I’ll kiU you,” cried Eric, 
quivering all over. 

“ You’re afraid to throw it,” sneered Chetwynd, 
wholly misunderstanding the emotions that shook his 
cousin’s frame. “ She was coming here to meet me to- 
day. She — ” 

Eric’s heart gave a great throb of joy and triumph. 

“ You lie ! She is out riding with Joan Bright. Oh, 
you cowardly dog! You beast!” 

“ You can say such things to me because you’ve got a 
rock in your hand. If — ” 

Without hesitation, Eric tossed the rock into the 
ditch. 

Like a ferocious, suddenly-freed tiger, Chetwynd 
sprang forward, a snarl of fury on his lips. They 


170 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


came together with a crash. . . • Twice Eric went 

down from savage body blows. Once he was kicked in 
the side while trying to arise. They fought their way 
out upon the rickety bridge, the smaller youth carefully 
guarding his face from the wild, murderous blows of 
the young giant. At last, the chance came to send in a 
telling blow of his own. 

He drove his fist against his cousin’s jaw as he came in 
with a crouching, bull-like rush, death-lust in his con- 
vulsed face. 

Chetwynd staggered back against the railing of the 
bridge, clutching at it to save himself from falling. A 
look of foolish surprise came into his eyes, to be suc- 
ceeded a second later by one of fearful dismay. 

“ O God! ” welled from young Blagden’s lips. 

The frail support creaked and splintered. There was 
a tearing, cracking sound, and then the rail gave way. 
Chetwynd’s shriek of horror was even less sickening than 
the groan that fell from Eric’s lips as he leaped forward 
to catch the tottering figure on the edge. 

In the twinkling of an eye he stood alone on the shud- 
dering bridge. 

Up from the depths came a horrid scream, cut short 
by the crash of timbers and the thud of a heavy body on 
the rocks seventy feet below. Then came utter still- 
ness. 

For a long time Eric Midthome stood rooted to the 
spot, petrified by horror. He had waited an age, it 
seemed, for the thud of that whirling, unseen body. 
Now he knew that the thing which had been so vitally 
alive a moment ago was alive no longer. 

He waited for a shout from below, or even a groan, — 
anything that would bring to him the courage to look 
down at the thing that had swayed, and writhed and 


TRAGEDY 


171 


clawed the air but a moment before. He could see 
nothing but that, — he could hear nothing but the wild 
scream. 

His body seemed to have turned to ice. He was 
freezing. Suddenly his knees gave way and he dropped 
heavily in his tracks. Fascinated by horror, he dragged 
himself to the edge, — to the very spot where Chetwynd 
had last been seen, — and peered over the side, down 
through that dark, sunless rift in the rocks. 

Dimly outlined against the black, moist floor of the 
ravine there was a huddled, motionless shape that took 
no definite form, but lay like a heap of discarded gar- 
ments waiting for the visit of the old iron and rags man. 
For many minutes the youth on the bridge, transfixed 
by horror, glared at this vague shape, hoping against 
hope that it would arise and resolve itself into human 
form, — into the human form he had hated so bitterly. 

But there was no movement of the heap, there was no 
sound, there was no sign. The thing down there was 
Chetwynd Blagden„ — big, brutal, virile Chetwynd, — 
and it was dead, horribly dead I 

With a low moan of realisation, Eric drew back from 
the edge, covering his eyes with his hands to shut out 
the dreadful sight. 

He had killed his cousin ! 

He was a murderer! 


CHAPTER X 


THE FLIGHT OF CHETWYND BLAGDEN 

Slowly his dulled brain took in the fact that someone 
was speaking to him, that a voice, hard and metallic, 
was penetrating his consciousness. The sounds seemed 
to come out of the air, the enveloping air; he could not 
locate them, and yet the speaker stood at the end of the 
bridge, in plain view. 

“ I’m sorry to say I taught you that blow,” said the 
voice. It seemed to the stunned, bewildered boy that 
this sentence was repeated over and over again. There 
had been words before these, but they had failed to 
pierce his intelligence. 

Suddenly, as if spurred by an electric shock, he 
sprang to his feet to find himself staring into the grim, 
unsmiling face of Adam Carr. The realisation that 
someone had witnessed the sickening accident — he could 
not think of it as anything else ^ — came over him like a 
flash. 

There was a witness 1 There was someone to tell his 
uncle and aunt that they had been right about him all 
along ! Uppermost in his mind, in that instant, was the 
dread of their uplifted, accusing hands. They, at least, 
would never believe that it was an accident. They 
would see that he swung for it ! 

“ Yes, I saw most of it,” said Adam Carr, replying to 
the question in those great, stricken eyes. 

“ Oh, Mr. Carr, why didn’t you come sooner? 
Why didn’t you stop it? ” fell in hoarse, unnatural tones 
from the rigid lips. 


in 


FLIGHT OF CHETWYND BLAGDEN 173 


“ I saw it from afar. The — the rail was very rot- 
ten. A child’s weight would have broken it down. 
See ! ” With that, he stretched out his hand and pushed 
the remaining rail from its fastenings. ‘‘ It’s a crime to 
let such timbers stay — but, this is no time to find fault. 
We must get down there to him. He may be alive.” 

He is down there, — dead ! ” wailed Eric. “ I can 
see him. Look ! That black thing there by the pile of 
shells!” 

“ Brace up ! Brace up ! Don’t lose your nerve, my 
lad. I’ve seen many a dead man, and so will you before 
you die. You — ” 

“ But you’ve never killed a man, as I have. I am a 
mur — ” 

“ Don’t be so sure that I’ve never killed a man, my 
lad. Come along! Don’t be afraid. He can’t hurt 
you now.” ^ 

“ It’s no use. He’s dead,” groaned the boy. ‘‘ I 
know — I can see. He hasn’t moved. I — I didn’t 
know — it would look like that. Why, there’s no shape 
to it. I^” 

Adam Carr grasped him by the arm and fairly 
dragged him off the bridge and into the path that led 
by devious windings to the bottom of the ravine. The 
boy was sobbing, but his eyes were wide and dry; his 
lips were contorted by that unspeakable grin that de- 
notes overpowering horror. 

“ I didn’t mean to do it,” he cried, over and over 
again. ‘‘ He forced me to fight. He was licking me 
when I hit him that time. I couldn’t have beat him, 
Mr. Carr. The rail — ” 

“ Stop talking,” grated the man. “ Don’t whine 
about it. It’s done, and that’s all there is to it.” 

“ I’m a murderer,” groaned the miserable boy. 


1174 . 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


“They said I’d do it some day. They’ll hang me. 
Then what will become of Mary.? Oh, why did I stand 
up to him.? Why didn’t I run.? ” 

“ Because you’re not that sort,” snapped the detec- 
tive. “ Now shut your mouth. You’ve got to begin it 
sooner or later, and you’d better start in right now. 
Not another word out of you. Stop it, I say ! ” 

Half -blind with horror, the unhappy youth stumbled 
along in the trail of Adam Carr. It did not enter hi& 
mind to flee from the hated spot. He followed as if 
hypnotised. 

They were five minutes in reaching the spot where 
Chetwynd lay, a crushed, spineless mass. Eric threw 
himself down beside the body, pleading in accents wild 
for a word, a single word, from the lips of his late ad- 
versary. 

“ Gret back,” commanded Adam sharply. “ Let me 
attend to this.” He took the boy’s place. In a moment 
he arose, and shook his head. “ It’s all up with him. 
Dead as a mackerel.” 

“ Try again ! Maybe he’s breathing. Try his 
heart,” cried the wretched Eric. “ We must go for a 
doctor. I’ll go. You look after him — ” 

“ No use, my lad. He’s done for. He’ll never 
bother you again; he’ll steal no more drawings from 
you ; he’ll — but we’ll talk about that later on. Here I 
Grab hold of his legs.” 

Eric shrank back, aghast. “ Wha — what are you 
going to do .? ” 

“ Hide it — I mean him under that clump of vines 
over there.” Eric still held back. The man looked at 
him for a moment, and then laid his hand on his shoul- 
der. “ See here, Eric,” he said, a wonderful kindness 
in his voice, “ no one knows of this but you and me. 


FLIGHT OF CHETWYND BLAGDEN 175 


No one ever need know. He’s just disappeared, that’s 
all — disappeared forever. People do that sort of 
thing sometimes. And,” here his eyes narrowed, “ let 
me tell you this: your cousin had the best reason in the 
world for skipping out.” 

“ I don’t understand,” murmured the bewildered 
Eric. 

“You will, when I explain. Take hold of him. 
Don’t be afraid. We’ll hide him until after dark.” 

Eric shook his head dully. “No, I can’t do that, 
Mr. Carr. It’s wrong.” 

“ Didn’t you hear what I said about being the only 
witness demanded Adam. “No one will ever find 
you out, depend on that.” 

“ I’ve got to tell Uncle Horace,” cried Eric, twisting 
his fingers. “ I’ve just got to.” 

“ Well, if you won’t, you won’t,” said the man 
grimly. “ Stay where you are. I’ll do it myself.” 

Eric, shuddering, turned his back while the other 
man took up the limp figure and, groaning under its 
weight, struggled across the rocks to the dense clump 
of vines that sprang from the base of the wall. 

“ Now you can look,” he remarked coolly, a few 
minutes later. He had covered the body in the mass of 
green vines. 

Eric looked on dumbly as the older man, with furtive 
glances aloft and up and down the dark crevasse, began 
a thorough and systematic search of the ground, his 
methods not unlike those of a dog smelling out a buried 
bone. He picked up a match-safe and pieces of the 
broken crystal of the dead man’s open-faced watch. 
A few scattered coins, part of a gold collar button that 
had been snapped in two by the strain on the band, the 
top of a fountain pen — nothing seemed to escape the 


176 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


trained eye of the searcher, who worked with a swift- 
ness that was amazing. For yards in every direction 
he scanned the ground. At last, with a satisfied grunt, 
he gave over the search and began to wash the spattered 
blood-stains from the rocks, scooping up water from 
the trickling rivulet that seeped through a crack in the * 
wall. , 

Young Midthome, limp as a rag, sat on a boulder, 
his chin in his hands, and watched these proceedings as 
if fascinated. 

Adam came over and touched him on the shoulder. 

“ Let’s get out of this,” he said sharply. Without a 
word, Eric arose and followed him up the defile. Not 
a word was spoken until they came out upon the ledge 
far above. The young man walked as if in a dream. 
He was completely under the spell exorcised by this 
calm, emotionless master of destiny. 

They seemed to be utterly alone in the world, these 
two. The placid landscape held no other living crea- 
ture save themselves. 

After a swift, penetrating glance about him, Adam 
Carr strode out upon the bridge, motioning his com- 
panion to remain where he was. He renewed his care- * 
ful search. At its conclusion, he calmly kicked away 
all that remained of the broken rail. It clattered upon 
the rocks far below, bringing a sharp quiver of alarm 
to the silent watcher. 

“ I guess there’s nothing left to give us away,” re- 
marked Adam, as coolly as if he were speaking of the 
most trivial thing in the world. “ Now, I’ll give you 
a few pointers, Eric. You can take my advice or 
leave it, just as you please, but I want you to under- 
stand that I am your friend and you can depend on me 
to the day of your death, or mine. We’ll go up there 


FLIGHT OF CHETWYND BLAGDEN m 

on Bud’s Rock and talk it over.” . . . The 

long shadow of the rock stretched out below them on 
the slate-coloured plain. The late afternoon sun had 
slipped down behind the upper ridge. Through Eric’s 
dazed, torpid mind ran the incongruous thought that 
Joan and Mary were in from their peaceful, happy 
drive through the shady lanes. He sat beside Adam 
Carr on the grassy slope, staring before him with 
blurred eyes as the man’s low, insistent voice kept for- 
ever pounding at his intelligence. 

“ You are not morally guilty, my lad, so get it out 
of your mind. What happened was an accident. It 
might just as well have been you who went off the 
bridge. You — ” 

“ Why are you saying all this to me ? ” asked Eric, 
out of his stupor. 

“ I want to help you. You must be saved. It wasn’t 
your fault, you say. I believe you, Eric, but I’ve had 
so much to do with courts and juries and public opinion 
that I am in a position to know the world would doubt 
your story. Your uncle and aunt knew that you hated 
Chetwynd. Do you suppose they’d believe you now? 
No, my lad. They’d say you waylaid him, knocked 
him on the head, and tumbled him into the Cut. You 
have no witnesses, and I could not help you. I saw 
nothing but the end of the row. For all I know, you 
may have attacked him and he was defending himself 
as best he could. You may have struck him first from 
behind. I have only your word for it. I should have 
to testify that I saw you strike him and knock him 
through the rail. My testimony wouldn’t help you 
any. Besides, they would have proof that you had 
your own reasons for killing him in cold blood. I know 
all about his mistreatment of Mary, and I know that 


178 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


you charge him with taking your drawing. I know 
everything there is to know about his actions during 
the past three weeks. I’ve been watching him all the 
time. Let me tell you this : he’s better off dead.” 

“ But I — I didn’t mean to do it, I swear I didn’t,’^ 
murmured Eric. 

“ That’s why I say you are not actually guilty. In 
any event, it was self-defence. If it were not for your 
well-known hatred for him, your own word might be 
taken for that. But you had threatened to kill him. 
At least, so he told your uncle and aunt and Judge 
Bright on more than one occasion.” 

“ I never threatened to kill him,” cried Eric, in a cold 
perspiration. “ He lied, if he said so.” 

“ That’s what I told Judge Bright. The Judge 
doesn’t believe it of you, but at the same time if he 
were called upon to testify he would have to say that 
Chetwynd told him that he was afraid of you. It 
would be bad for you. Now, if you’ll be guided by 
me, you can save yourself. It — it might mean hang- 
ing, my lad, and God knows you don’t deserve punish- 
ment of any kind.” 

“ But, he’s dead. They’ll search for him. They’ll j 
find his body. I - — I never could stand up and deny 
it if they accused me of it.” 

“ Now, listen to me,” said Adam Carr earnestly, fix- 
ing the boy with his keen eyes. “ They won’t find 
him. I’ll see to that. I’m going to stand by you in 
this business, but you’ve got to stand by me. You’ve 
got to keep your lips closed forever. I can’t afford 
to be mixed up in it, don’t you see.? I’m supposed to 
hunt down men, not to assist them in escaping.” 

“ I can’t do it ! ” groaned the boy. 


FLIGHT OF CHETWYND BLAGDEN 179 


“ See here ! Answer me this question : did you de- 
liberately, wantonly kill your cousin ? ” 

“No! God knows I didn’t.” 

“ But God isn’t going to judge you for awhile, un- 
^ derstand that. You’ll be judged by men, before God 
gets a chance to forgive you. God isn’t going to hold 
this against you, so why should you give your fellow 
man a chance to do you harm? You’re not guilty of 
murder, but — well, I guess you’re beginning to under- 
stand. I’m thinking for you and for Mary, my boy, 
and I’m thinking hard. You can trust me. I will 
do what is right and just, for I know what these damned 
brutes of men do when they get on a jury, or when they 
set out to hound a fellow-creature to his grave. 1 am 
your judge, Eric. You are the only witness I shall 
examine, and I will acquit you of all blame on your 
own word. You may not sleep well to-night, but to- 
morrow you will realise that you did what could not 
be helped and that the God you speak of took away 
Chetwynd’s life — God and a community that does not 
keep its bridges in repair. Now, tell me slowly, care- 
fully, just what brought on the fight.” 

Eric told the story from beginning to end, from the 
instant he saw Chetwynd on the bridge to his disappear- 
ance over the edge. 

“ I couldn’t stand it any longer when he said that 
about my sister. I just had to fight. It was a fair 
fight, too, — as fair as I know how. I — I watched 
for my chance to get in that blow you taught me. I — 
well, that’s all.” 

“ He deserved the licking,” « said Adam, a grim 
smile on his lips. “And I won’t say he didn’t de- 
serve the punishmenj^ God gave him, too. He was 


180 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


a rascal, Eric, — a nasty rascal. I can tell you who 
that letter was from. It was from a woman in New 
York, a woman on whom he was spending thousands of 
dollars that didn’t belong to him.” 

“ Didn’t belong to him ? ” 

“ Yes. I suppose you believed all that private in- 
struction rot, too, the same as his father and mother 
did. Well, I’ve got a few rare facts to lay before the 
Blagdens.” 

There was such utter vindictiveness in his manner of 
speech that Eric looked at him in wonder. 

“ Oh, I don’t profess love for your fine Blagdens,’^ 
said Adam gruffly. “ Horace and I used to play to- 
gether when we were little chaps. Oswald Bright was 
another of my playmates. I was a poor sailorman’s 
son ; they were of the elect. I knew your mother, Eric, 
when she was a tiny little girl. But our family left 
Corinth long before she was in shoe-top frocks, and 
I never saw her afterward. That’s neither here nor 
there. I’ve never forgotten the scurvy trick Horace 
played on me in school. Somebody in our room was 
stealing things from the desks of the other scholars. 
Horace openly accused me of it. I was driven out in 
disgrace. Not one of my old playmates would look ^ 
at me, except Oswald Bright. By George, he was a 
great judge, even in those days. He defended me on 
all occasions, and he — he pulled me out of the water 
once when I actually tried to drown myself because I 
was so unhappy. He put new courage into me. 

My father moved to Gloucester a few months after- 
ward, but one day Oswald wrote me a letter saying they 
had caught the real thief in the act of pilfering, and 
he confessed to the whole range of thefts. He was 
sent to the house of correction and proved a bad lot 


FLIGHT OF CHETWYND BLAGDEN 181 


all the rest of his life. But I never forgot Horace 
Blagden’s charge against me. Years passed before he 
grudgingly apologised to me at Bright’s suggestion. 
I don’t mind saying I’ve never liked your Uncle Hor- 
ace, and that’s putting it gently. Now my turn has 
come. He’ll squirm when I tell him the name of the 
man who got away with the bank’s money a few months 
ago. It will turn his hair greyer than it is when he 
finds out for a certainty that it wasn’t John Payson 
who took it.” 

“ Payson ? The teller who used to be — ” 

“ In Chetwynd’s place,” completed Adam grimly. 

A lot of money was taken out about the time Payson 
left the bank. Your uncle sent for me. He was de- 
termined Jack was the thief. I went to work. For 
weeks and weeks I watched every move that fellow 
made, not so much for the purpose of finding him guilty 
to please Horace Blagden, but to establish his innocence 
to please myself. Payson was no more guilty of robbing 
that bank than you are, and I was sure of it from the 
beginning. Horace wouldn’t have it so. He insisted 
that I keep after him. He said he’d ‘ get him ’ if it 
took years. Well, I told him I’d find the thief, I didn’t 
care how long it took. So I stuck to the case, chiefly 
to clear Jack Payson. His dad was my best friend 
when we were boys, and his mother is one of the finest 
women in the world. She’s a widow now and Jack 
supports her. To-morrow I’m going up to Horace 
Blagden’s house to make a charge against the real 
thief.” 

Eric was leaning forward, staring at the hard-set 
face of the speaker, his eyes wide with understanding. 

“ You don’t mean — Chetwynd.^ ” he cried. 

“ I do mean Chetwynd. He was the thief. I have 




MARY MIDTHORNE 


positive proof. He took seven thousand dollars out of 
sealed packages in the vault the second day after he 
went into the bank to be instructed by Payson. They 
kept these packages there for emergency cases, being 
a safe old New England bank, you know.” His grin 
was the quintessence of irony. “ The money was not 
missed for weeks, but as some smaller bills had disap- 
peared from the cage just before Payson left, it was 
recalled, and suspicion fell on him.” 

‘‘ Chetwynd stole all that money ? ” 

“ He needed it,” chuckled Adam reflectively. It’s 
an expensive luxury, keeping a girl in fine clothes, car- 
riages and champagne, let me tell you that. He met 
her when he was in college, and she knew he was too 
good to let slip. So she hung on. She got most of the 
seven thousand dollars down there in little old New 
York, and she laughed at him behind his back. I’ve had 
more than one friendly chat with her, and I’ve drunk 
some of his champagne, although he didn’t know of it. 
I may add that she looked on me as a rich ranch-owner 
from the Far West. She didn’t know me for the 
original Adam. I got a good deal out of Miss Bunnie 
He Vinne. Yes, my boy, I ran your cousin right down 
to the ground. A day or two ago I laid it all before 
Judge Bright. He begged me to let the matter drop. 
But I refused. I had told Horace I’d find the thief, 
and that it wouldn’t be poor Jack Payson. So there 
you are ! To-morrow I’m going to make public my dis- 
covery and ask for the arrest of Chetwynd Blagden for 
embezzlement.” 

He leaned back against the rock and watched the 
varying expressions in Eric’s face, — amazement and 
' perplexity being paramount. 

“ His arrest? ” cried he, with a swift, involuntary 


FLIGHT OF CHETWYND BLAGDEN 183 


glance toward the ravine. “ Why, — why, how can you 
arrest him now ? He’s — he’s — ” 

“ That’s just the point,” said Adam composedly. 
‘‘ But I can bring charges against him, can’t I? ” 

“ I don’t understand you, Mr. Carr.” 

‘‘ Of course, I can’t arrest him for the very good 
reason that he got wind of my intention and skipped 
out, — ^ we’ll say to-day.” 

Eric looked his perplexity. 

“ Don’t you catch my meaning ” asked Adam, with 
his first sign of enthusiasm. “ Chetwynd isn’t dead. 
Not at all. He skipped out to avoid arrest.” 

‘‘I — I see,” murmured the other, light breaking in 
on him. 

‘‘ I went through his pockets down there in the Cut,” 
went on Adam. “ He had five hundred dollars in bills. 
He was certain that I knew everything. Judge Bright 
told him enough last night to open his eyes pretty thor- 
oughly. He brought that money out here to buy me 
off. He was desperate, and he was willing to risk 
discovery at the bank in order to get me off his back, 
so to speak. So, you see, all this makes it very simple 
for us. When I go in to-morrow to accuse him of the 
crime, he won’t be there. His father will say that he 
hasn’t been at home since noon to-day. Then, I’ll tell 
him why. He has vamosed, that’s all there is to it.” 

He leaned back and studied his young friend’s face 
once more, this time being relieved to see signs of hope 
and credulity there. 

“ Oh, if I can only keep them from finding out,” said 
Eric, in agitated, eager tones. “I — I don’t want to 
go to prison, Mr. Carr. I wonder — I wonder if we 
can do it. You can do your part, I know, but can I 
face them ? I — I never told a lie in my life.” 


184 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


‘‘ You won’t have to tell one now. Just keep your 
lips closed. Don’t breathe a word to a soul — never, 
so long as you live, my boy.” 

‘‘ But I will have to sit by and join in the talk about 
him at home.” 

“ There won’t be much said about him at home, I’ll 
promise you that. His name won’t be mentioned there.” 

“ But how will Uncle Horace explain his disappear- 
ance.? You forget that.” 

“ I intend to explain it,” said Adam grimly. “ H 
have all my proof in hand. The story goes to the news- 
papers to-morrow, — all of it.” 

“ Oh, you can’t do that ! It would kill Uncle Hor-» 
ace.” Eric was genuinely grieved. 

“ Horace Blagden hasn’t enough money, all told, to 
buy my silence. I’ve waited years for the chance to 
strike back at him. Nothing on earth can stay the 
blow — nothing ! ” 

Eric watched his convulsed face in a sort of stupe- 
faction for a few moments. Then his mind abruptly- 
returned to his own affairs. 

“ They will find the body,” he half-whispered. 

“ I will attend to that. No one will ever see that 
body after twelve o’clock to-night, unless the sea dries 
up and leaves its bottom bare. No, my boy, Chet- 
wynd’s name will never be mentioned by his father after 
to-morrow. As for you, you won’t have any choice 
in the matter. Your uncle will give you your orders. 
No one will be allowed to mention his name in his 
home, or in his presence if he can prevent it. That’s 
how he will take it. I’m sorry for one thing, Eric, 
but I won’t hold it as a grudge against you. You de- 
prived me of the joy of putting that young scoundrel 
where he belongs — behind the bars. I have said to 


FLIGHT OF CHETWYND BLAGDEN 185 


myself I’d bury him in a prison cell. I can’t do that 
now, but I will bury him somewhere else.” 

“You — you are a hard man, Mr. Carr. I didn’t 
believe any man could be so bitter, so hard.” 

“We won’t talk about that, if you please,” said the 
other coldly. “ You can thank your lucky stars that 
I am a hard man, and that I am your friend. You’d 
be in a devil of a mess, if I were not just what I am. 
Now, here are your books and papers. I picked ’em 
up for you. Take them and go as if nothing had hap- 
pened.” 

“ I can’t do it ! I’ll dream of him all the rest of — 

“ Rubbish ! You’re young and you’ll sleep a long 
sight better than you would if you were in a cell, 
waiting for the hangman’s noose. You have not com- 
mitted a murder. Bear that in mind, always. It was 
an accident. Can’t you say that to yourself, over and 
over again You know it is true. Time will do the 
rest for you. Now, get along home.” The man arose 
and imperiously motioned for his companion to be off 
down the slope. 

Eric hesitated. “ What — what are you going to 
do.?” 

“ I am going to walk part way with you.” 

“ And leave — leave it there alone.? ” 

“ Oh, it won’t run away,” said Adam. “ Besides, 
you forget it isn’t there. It’s on the way to New 
York to meet Bunnie De Vinne.” 

It was grim humour. The speaker himself chuckled 
over it, and Eric, in a sort of hysterical terror, joined 
in with a harsh, staccato laugh that was cut short by 
the sharp command of his conscience. 

As they came out upon the bridge, Adam Carr 
grasped his companion by the arm and hurried him 


186 MARY MIDTHORNE 

across, as if there were devils and witches behind 
them. 

“ I did that to keep you from looking down into the 
ravine,” he announced, in response to the look of amaze- 
ment in Eric’s eyes. 

They walked rapidly down the narrow, fast-darken- 
ing road, between sombre rocks and shaggy brush- 
wood, without so much as a single look backward. 

Neither spoke for a long time. At last Adam Carr 
broke the silence by remarking, in the most casual 
way : 

“ I left the five hundred in his pocket.” 

Eric looked up from the road, which he had been 
covering with long, rigid strides. “ I’m glad of that, 
Mr. Carr.” 

“ He stole it, but that’s no reason why I should steal 
it from him. I guess the bank won’t go to the wall if it 
never gets back.” 

“No, I guess not,” said Eric mechanically. 

The sky grew darker. Long, thin shadows from the 
slope above advanced to meet them as they strode into 
the falling dusk, shadows that seemed to point eternally 
backward over the shoulder of the wretched boy, as if 
telling him of the long, black road that Chetwynd’s 
ghost was traversing in the painful effort to catch up 
to him, crushed and mangled but still revengeful. 

Again Adam spoke. They were nearing the upper 
gate to the Seaman’s Home, and his father would be 
waiting for him there. 

“ Judge Bright had him up there last night to see 
if he couldn’t get him to give up this girl in New York. 
He didn’t mention the embezzlement, but he sort of 
opened Chetwynd’s eyes to a good many things. The 
Judge made me promise to give him the chance to 


FLIGHT OF CHETWYND BLAGDEN 18T 


iwring an honest confession out of him. But Chet- 
wynd wasn’t the kind to confess a wrong. He couldn’t. 
He was a Blagden. So he told the Judge to go to the 
devil and left the house.” 

“ See here, Mr. Carr, you’ve got to tell me just what 
you’re going to do with — with Chetwynd’s body. 
I—” 

“Sh! Not so loud, my boy. Well, if you must 
know. I’ll tell you. There’s no moon to-night. If you 
should happen to be strolling along Stone Wall at eleven 
or twelve to-night, and if you possess the eyes of a 
cat, you will see a small boat put out to sea from a 
point near the mouth of the ravine. There will be two 
men in that boat, one dead, one alive. The living — 

Eric grasped his arm in an ecstasy of horror. 

“You’re not going to row out to sea alone with — ► 
with it in the boat with you ” 

“ Of course. I’m not afraid of ghosts. If I was,, 
I’d be haunted all the time. You see, Eric, in my time 
I’ve killed a man or two. I’ve had to do it or be 
killed myself, just as you might have been. Yes, I’m 
going to take him five or six miles out, and leave him 
there. He will go down in an old iron chest of mine, and 
the whole Atlantic Ocean will not be strong enough to 
budge that chest, once it touches bottom.” 

“ God in heaven ! ” groaned the boy, all a-tremble 
with the horror of this grewsome declaration. 

“ You’ve heard father sing that song about ‘ dead 
men’s chests,’ haven’t you.'* ” went on Adam calmly. 
“ WeU,— ” 

“ For heaven’s sake, don’t! ” cried the boy. 

“ I’m sorry, Eric,” said the other, laying his hand 
on the boy’s arm. “ I guess I’m a rather cold-blooded 
chap. I didn’t mean to upset you so.” 


188 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


Mr. Carr, I want you to take me along with you to- 
night,” said Eric, abruptly halting in the middle of 
the road, a strong note of resoluteness in his voice. 

“ What.? ” 

“ Yes, I mean it. If you are going to do it in that 
way, I want to be with you. It’s this way, Mr. Carr: 
if I’ve got to keep quiet all my life about what I’ve 
done, I must be sure in my own mind that the — that he 
is really out there at the bottom of the sea. I’ve got to 
know it for myself.” 

“ Don’t you trust me .? ” asked Adam, with a queer 
little smile. 

“ I’ve got to know it for myself,” repeated Eric reso- 
lutely. 

Adam resumed his rapid pace without replying. His 
head was bent and his hands were pushed deep into his 
coat pockets. Eric kept close to his side. After twenty 
rods or more had been covered in silence, save for the 
hard breathing of the two pedestrians, the detective 
turned to his companion. 

“ I guess you’re right. You will want to be sure, 
won’t you.? Come to Fisher’s Landing at ten o’clock. 
I’ll be there with a boat.” 

Eric shuddered. ‘‘ It’s — it’s going to be horrible,” 
he said, striving to set his chattering teeth. 

They could see old Jabez at the gate, a hundred 
yards ahead. He was smoking and at peace with the 
world. 

Eric wondered if he would ever be at peace with the 
world again. 

“ Uncle Horace and Aunt Rena will expect Chetwynd 
to come back some day,” he mused aloud. “ They’ll 
never get over expecting him. It will always be that 
way with them. I don’t believe I can stand it, Mr. 


FLIGHT OF CHETWYND BLAGDEN 18 ^ 


Carr. They’ll wonder where he is, whether he’s weE 
or ill, in trouble or out of it, well cared for or starving. 
It’s — it’s terrible to think of.” 

“ My boy,” said Adam quietly, ‘‘ you’ve saved them 
from a great deal worse trouble than all that. Some 
men ought to die young.” 


CHAPTER XI 


THE SHADOWS FAEIi 

It was long after two o’clock in the morning when 
Eric, drenched by the sea-mists, stole across the lawn 
and let himself into the darkened house on the hill, 
through a window he had left unfastened at the time 
of his stealthy departure several hours before. He 
was faint from the horrors of that midnight excursion. 
His legs trembled beneath him as he crept up the stair- 
case and down the long hall to his room. An impulse, 
grewsome enough, caused him to pause for an instant 
before the closed door of Chetwynd’s room. He lis- 
tened there for a moment, and then hurried on as if 
afraid that the door would open in his face to reveal the 
figure of — Chetwynd himself 1 

The house was as still as death itself. He knew 
that his uncle and aunt were sleeping soundly in the 
big blue room overlooking the street, in serene igno- 
rance of what the morning was to bring to them. Some- 
how, he had the uncanny feeling that this was the last 
night on which they would sleep soundly and in peace. 

In his own room at last, he softly opened the door 
leading to the smaller one occupied by Mary. He could 
not see her for the darkness, but in time his heart-beats 
subsided so that his ears could detect the soft, regular 
breathing of the girl in the white bed across the room. 

He undressed in the dark, leaped into bed, and al- 
though the night was very warm, pulled the coverlet 
over his shivering frame, and closed his eyes so tightly 
that they hurt, in the effort to go to sleep instantly, 
190 


THE SHADOWS FALL 


191 


:whether his brain willed it or no. Many minutes passed 
and sleep came not because he courted it so zealously. 
He heard the muffled strokes of the ancient clock in 
the hallway below. He remembered that it was out of 
repair — it had been ever since he could recall — and 
was as likely to strike fifteen as it was one; it never 
struck the correct number. The hour was three, he 
knew, but he found himself wondering how far out of 
the way the futile time-piece would prove to be. He 
counted eleven. Then the silence was more death-like 
than before. The incongruous thought flashed through 
his mind that his uncle, being a methodical person, was 
singularly remiss in allowing the clock to go on such a 
prolonged tantrum as this. 

Suddenly he remembered that he had not said his 
prayers. He never had missed saying them before. 
Mr. Presbrey had been particularly imperative about 
the prayers. Formerly he had knelt at the rail of the 
bed to say them, but of late he had been mumbling them 
in bed, asserting an independence that rather pleased 
him, although he was careful not to apprise Mr. Pres- 
brey of the departure. Impelled by a strange power 
which would not be resisted, he slipped out of bed and 
knelt once more in the old, accepted way. Before he 
knew what had happened, in the course of the set prayer 
which the minister had prepared for him, he mumbled 
the sentence : “ Bless Uncle Horace and Aunt Rena and 
Cousin Chetwynd, and bless my dear sister — ” 

But there he stopped. Chetwynd ! The name seemed 
to strike back at his lips. The prayer was ended. 

As he started to arise, a long, quavering cry came 
from Mary’s room. He sprang to his feet, electrified^ 
his whole body rigid from the shock to his overwrought 
nerves. With bated breath and glaring eyes, he waited 


192 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


for a repetition of the sound. It came a moment later, 
this time louder and with a note of terror: 

“Eric!” 

It was Mary’s voice, after all. A wave of relief 
surged over him. In two bounds he was at her door. 

“ What is it? What is the matter, Mary.?^ ” 

“ Come here, Eric,” she cried plaintively. “ Oh, I’ve 
had such a terrible dream. Please light the gas, just 
for a minute. It was so real. I wonder if it could 
have been true. Did you hear anyone go out of my 
door.? ” 

“ No,” he replied, stopping in the middle of the room, 
conscious of a strange premonition. “ You were 
dreaming. No one has been here.” 

“ Light the gas. I am so nervous. I thought Chet- 
wynd was in the room, standing at the side of my bed, 
with his hands reaching out to grab hold of me. He 
had the most awful look in his face. He was saying 
something to me. I couldn’t catch aU of the words, I 
was so frightened, and his voice was so thick and 
hoarse. But I did understand part of it. It was bad, 
oh, so vile. I don’t know why I should dream such 
things. Won’t you light the gas, Eric, please? ” 

But he stood there as if turned to stone — the blood 
in his veins congealed. She heard strange, mumbled 
words on his lips. 

“ Oh, God, I wonder if he was here. Can he be here 
now, in this room? ” 

“ No, no, you ninny,” cried she, with a shrill little 
laugh. “ Of course, it was a dream. I’m wide awake 
now. I’m sorry I disturbed you, Eric. But, — please 
stay with me for a little while. It was so real, and I’m 
such a coward. You know how frightened I am of him 
anyway. Sit down on the bed, Eric.” 


THE SHADOWS FALL 


19S 


“ I shan’t light the gas,” he said resolutely. He 
would not let her see his face. That was out of the 
question. 

He sat down on the edge of the bed. In the dark- 
ness her eager little hand sought his, and found it as 
cold as ice. 

“ How cold your hand is,” she cried. 

“Is it?” he asked mechanically. 
f “ Listen, Eric, and I’ll tell you why I had the dream. 
They say there is no explanation for one’s dreams, but 
I don’t believe it. I think, if one can only go back inta 
one’s mind, in some little forgotten corner of it, he will 
be sure to find an impression, or a thought, or a memory 
that will furnish the cause for every single dream. 
Sometimes we may have to go back of our present ex- 
istence, into the one before this, or maybe we project 
ourselves into a future incarnation, but we — 

“ Don’t talk nonsense, Mary,” he interrupted gruffly. 

“ It isn’t nonsense,” she cried. “ Joan and I were 
talking about re-incarnation to-day. She believes in 
it, just as I do. She thinks when we die our souls pass 
on to another body, and the good in us grows while the 
bad decreases.” 

“ Tell me : what caused this dream of yours ? ” 

Her hand began to tremble. “ I ought not to tell 
you,” she said nervously. “ You will quarrel with Chet- 
wynd. You — you — Oh, Eric, you might do some- 
thing dreadful.” 

“ What, for instance? ” he asked deliberately. 

“You must promise me first that you won’t — fight 
him. Oh, I am so afraid, Eric, that you will let your 
temper get the better of you.” 

“ What has he said to you, — what has he done ? ” 
demanded her brother, his hatred for his cousin lifting- 


194 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


itself above all other sensations. Oddly, he felt a sud- 
den, fierce desire to fall upon and destroy a living Chet- 
^ynd. 

‘‘ Promise me.” 

All right. I — I shan’t do anything,” he groaned, 
and she mistook the tone for one of bitter resignation. 

“Well, he — insulted me to-day. I — I can’t tell 
you what he said to me, Eric. It was too vile. I could 
have killed him myself. He — ” 

“ What did he say ? ” demanded Eric. She was 
struck by the sudden, exultant note in his voice. It was 
as if he were glad that she had been subjected to the af- 
front. 

“ I can’t tell you. He is the vilest thing in all this 
world. Oh, I hope God will punish him, — I know he 
will. When I cried and told him never to speak to me 
again, he said — Oh, Eric, dear, I can’t tell you.” 

“ Go on, go on ! ” 

“ He said I wasn’t any better than mother was, and 
for me to stop whining. He scared me by threatening 
to tell people that I — I had already been bad, — like 
the girls at French Fannie’s — and if I didn’t — ” 

Eric stood up and lifted his clenched hands to heaven, 
a great sob of joy bursting from his throat. 

“ Oh, now it’s all right ! It’s all right ! I’m glad ! 
Curse him, I’m glad ! ” 

Mary sat bolt upright and cried out in alarm. 

“ What are you saying, Eric.f^ Glad.?* Why — why 
are you glad.'’ ” 

He caught his breath. The thrill of exultation passed 
in a flash; his turbulent thoughts crowded into a nar- 
row channel that led him back to safety. For the first 
time since the events of the afternoon, he found himself 


195 


THE SHADOWS FALD 

in full possession of his wits. A wonderful cunning 
took lodgment where despair and remorse had been. 
God had punished. It was God, after all. Adam had 
said so, Mary had hoped it would be so. God had pun- 
ished, through him, — the one best qualified to be His 
agent. It was as it should be. 

His brain worked quickly. ‘‘ Fm glad we know just 
the kind of a scoundrel he is. There won’t be any row 
between us, Mary, but I’m going to tell him in the morn- 
ing that he’s got to let you alone. That’s all. I can 
settle his case by telling what I know about the girl he’s 
keeping in New York.” 

Then, to ease his own mind, he briefly told her of that 
single phase in the unsavoury life of their cousin, care- 
fully refraining from any mention of his peculations, 
leaving that to the developments of another day. Mary 
was appalled by the disclosure. 

What would Aunt Rena say if she knew.f* ” she whis- 
pered, in awe. 

He plied her with questions, eager to obtain further 
justification for himself, and succeeded in getting a 
rather tearful statement of facts. Chetwynd had made 
vile proposals to this sixteen-year old girl, and had 
threatened her in no vague terms. The hateful en- 
^ counter took place at the noon hour, just before she 
started out for her drive with Joan. 

‘‘ Won’t it be fine if they will let me go to Miss Sin- 
nox’s with Joan,” she cried in the end. If only to get 
away from Chetwynd. I — I don’t believe I could stay 
here next winter, Eric, with you away at college. I am 
so afraid of him. Why — why, I placed a chair against 
my door to-night. I was afraid he might try to come 
in here before you got home.” 


196 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


He started. “ Before I got home? ” 

I looked into your room at ten o’clock and you were 
not there.” 

He turned very cold. “ It was so hot in there that I 
went outside for a little while,” he explained dully. 

“ I listened nearly all night for him. He was out, too. 
Go and listen at his door, Eric. See if he is in there.” 

‘‘ Nonsense. I can’t go snooping around like that. 
He’s in, of course. He won’t dare come in here. You’re 
foolish, dear. Go to sleep.” 

“ Leave your door wide open, please,” she begged. 

He was silent for a moment. “ I’ll tell you what I’U 
<Io. You’re nervous, and I don’t blame you. I’ll get a 
blanket and a pillow and lie here on the floor by your 
window.” 

She was satisfied. In ten minutes she was sound 
asleep, secure in his presence. He lay very still and 
t^nse under the window ledge, staring wide-eyed up into 
the darkness, the soft night-wind blowing across his 
face. 

At last his hands unclenched themselves and his whole 
body relaxed in surrender to the new despair as he lay 
there thinking it all out. 

He could not go on being the sweetheart of Joan 
Bright ! 

At ten o’clock Adam Carr presented himself at the 
bank and enquired for President Blagden. He was in- 
formed that Mr. Blagden had not yet come down. He 
had not been late before in the memory of the oldest em- 
ploye. 

“ Overslept, I daresay,” remarked Adam laconically. 
He never does that, sir,” replied the ancient per- 
son who served as janitor and day watchman. 


THE SHADOWS FALL 197 

“ I’ll wait,” said Adam. “ By the way, is his son 
here? ” 

“ No, sir. That’s what makes me think there’s some- 
thing wrong up at the house.” 

“ Have you telephoned? ” 

“ Mr. Gray did, a moment ago. No one is ever late 
here, sir. That is, among the employes. It’s Mr. 
Blagden’s rule. Sickness is the only excuse. Or a 
death in the family.” 

“ Umph ! ” said Mr. Carr. 

Horace came in at ten-thirty. His first glance was 
in the direction of the teller’s cage occupied his son. 
Adam noticed a slight contraction of his eye-brows, and 
a no uncertain pursing of the lower lip. 

He intercepted Mr. Blagden before he reached the 
door leading to his private office. 

“ Just a word, Mr. Blagden — ” he began. 

“ Not at present, if you please,” interrupted Horace, 
so irritably that the listening clerks forgot themselves 
and looked up. Mr. Blagden was never anything but 
suave. 

“ I can’t wait,” announced Adam shortly. 

Horace paused. His austerity seemed to ciumble be- 
fore the very eyes of the furtive watchers. Indeed, they ( 
were permitted to witness an amazing metamorphosis. 
He had turned sharply at Adam’s curt remark. For a 
second or two his haughty stare held. Then his lips 
parted and his hand went up with a spasmodic jerk as if 
to reclaim physical control of his features, but no 
power of his own could conquer the sudden feeling 
of dread and apprehension that rushed up from 
within to reveal itself in his eyes. Intuitively he knew 
that calamity was upon him. A blow was about to be 
struck. 


198 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


** Come into my room,” he said harshly. It would 
never do for those fellows behind the counters to see the 
blow fall, and to go forth with the story of how he 
shrivelled beneath it. 

Adam followed him into the private office. 

“ Well,” said Horace, turning upon him as soon as 
the door was closed. 

“ I have discovered the thief,” said Adam quietly. 

For a full minute the two men faced each other. 

‘‘How much do you ask.^^ What is your price, 
Adam ? ” asked Horace, a deathly pallor in his cheek. 
He put out his hand to steady himself against the table. 

“ Price demanded Adam, with a frown. “What 
do you mean.? I ask for nothing but the private reward 
you offered in the name of the bank.” 

“ It — it isn’t young Payson ? ” 

“ No, it isn’t. If I were you, Horace, I’d put that 
fellow back in his job here. He’s honest.” 

“ Speak out, man. Tell me the truth. Have done 
with it,” cried Horace, suddenly losing control of his 
nerves. He was shaking like a leaf. 

“ You were bent on punishing the thief, Horace. 
You said you’d give a thousand dollars to see him put 
where all thieves ought to be. In all the history of the 
bank, there had not been a thief among its employes. 
This thief was the onl^ thief. You were determined to 
make a lasting example of him. You were going to 
punish him if it took years to find the necessary proof. 
Well, I’ve got the proof, all of it. There’s enough of 
it to put him comfortably where all thieves ought to 
be.” 

Horace made a great effort to pull himself together. 

“ Will you be more specific, Carr.? ” he said, but his 
voice shopk. 


THE SHADOWS FALE 199 

Adam looked at him in wonder, and with a trace of 
pity in his eyes. 

It’s going to be pretty hard, Horace. I hope you’ll 
take it hke a man.” 

Horace straightened up; his gaze tried to meet that 
of the detective without quailing. 

“ I have asked you to be quite specific, Carr,” he re- 
peated. 

‘‘ Where is your son.?^ ” demanded Adam abruptly. 

Horace seemed to draw his shoulders in as if his body 
was undergoing a tightening process. 

‘‘ My son He — See here, Carr, what do you know 
of him? Where is he? Don’t waste words. For — - 
for God’s sake, out with it.” 

“ Do you mean to say that you don’t know where he 
is? ” demanded Adam loudly. “ Isn’t he at home? ” 

‘‘ Sh! Not so loud, please! No, he is not at home. 
I will be quite frank with you, he did not come home 
last night. He’s — he’s gone.” 

“ Are you speaking the truth? ” 

« Sir!” 

“ I understand, Horace. It is natural for a father to 
shield his son. He confessed to you. You are going to 
stand by him while — ” 

“ Carr, as God is my witness, I did not suspect my son 
until I looked into your eyes out there in the bank a few 
minutes ago. Then, something seemed to tell me what it 
was you had come to say — and to do. Now, Adam, I 
am asking you how much you want. What is your 
price? ” 

Adam Carr drew back his arm as if to strike. A sav- 
age light leaped into his eyes. 

“ That’s the second time you’ve asked me that ques- 
tion. I’ll answer it this time.” He stuck his hands 


^00 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


into his coat pockets and faced Mr. Blagden squarely. 
“ I have a price and you’ll have to pay it. You’ll be a 
long time doing it, Horace, but it’s got to be paid. Once 
you accused me of being a thief. You drove me out of 
this town, disgraced. You — ” 

‘‘ I was a boy then, Adam. We are men now. I ask 
' you to overlook that — ” 

Adam held up his hand. “ You have never publicly 
admitted your error, even though you knew you were 
wrong. All these years you have allowed Corinth to 
believe that you are still unconvinced. I want to say to 
you now that I wouldn’t sell the knowledge I have of 
your son’s rottenness for all the money in this bank. 
You can’t pay my price in money, Horace. You can 
only pay it with suffering. You are a good man. Good 
men suffer harder than bad men. You had no mercy on 
your sister. You are pleased to say that she’s in hell; 
that’s enough for you. Her children You — well, 
we won’t speak of them. I suppose you can’t help being 
what you are.” 

“I am an honest. God-fearing man, — a Christian 
whose — ” 

] And like that other God-fearing man, you have a 
prodigal son. Will you have the courage to kill a fat- 
ted calf when he returns to you, blackened with shame, 
or wdll you publicly consign him to the devil as you did 
your sister because she was not good enough to come in 
for your passover? ” 

“ My boy can be saved. The cases are not the 
same.” 

How about the Widow Payson’s boy ? ” 

‘‘ Have done with this ! What do you mean to do ? ” 
I am going to put my proofs — and they are unas- 
sailable — before the people of Corinth.” 


THE SHADOWS FALL 


201 


Horace eyed him quite calmly. He was master of 
himself once more, so far as outward appearances were 
concerned. 

“ This institution will not prefer charges against the 
son of its president. I shall restore all of the money 
that is missing. That will be the end of it.” 

“ Not exactly,” said Adam, with a smile. “ You for- 
get me. I am going to hunt this world over until I find 
the thief. Then I shall bring him back to you. It 
rests with the bank, of course, whether he shall be sent 
to prison. But I shall do my part, never fear. You 
can’t keep me from hunting him down, and you can’t 
keep me from giving the story to the world. Sit down, 
Horace. I want to tell you just what I know of your 
son’s actions.” 

Half an hour later, Adam Carr left the bank. Be- 
fore five o’clock in the afternoon, representatives of" 
New York and Boston newspapers were in Corinth in- 
vestigating the report that the son of Horace was a 
defaulter, and that he had fled. 

The whole blighting story of Chetwynd’s crime was 
to find its way into the great newspapers. 

Corinth was appalled! 

Once more Todville rejoiced, and along the water 
front the denizens spoke without fear or restraint. The 
smug little city was shaken as by a monster convulsion. 

A Blagden had gone wrong! A male Blagden! A 
son of The Blagden at that ! 

The Corinth Courier waited. It had everything to 
lose and nothing to gain. The editor got very drunk, 
— and he hadn’t been drunk in ten years, — and sent 
his impotent lamentations to heaven on more than one 
street comer. He desired all Corinth to know that he 
couldn’t help himself. That was the curse of running 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


202 

a newspaper in a small town. His hands were tied. 
But he was able to give an excellent demonstration that 
his tongue was not tied — that is to say, not properly 
tied. 

Before nightfall of that memorable day, the popula- 
tion of Corinth, from extreme youth to doddering old 
age, knew that Chetwynd Blagden had robbed the bank 
and had fled, under cover of night, to join a vile 
temptress in New York, — a vampire in the shape of a 
woman. Moreover, everyone knew that Horace Blag- 
den had gone up to the “ Giant’s Castle ” — (ghastly 
misnomer!) — at noon and had not been seen outside its 
doors since. Hundreds of people went out of their way 
to walk past the house during the afternoon, casting 
furtive glances at the windows. Officials of the bank, 
and of other concerns in which he was interested, tele- 
phoned to the house, and each in turn was told that Mr. 
Blagden could see no one, nor would he speak with any- 
one. 

Mr. Presbrey approached the house at six, confidently 
expecting to be admitted. He was turned away by the 
sour-faced Martha, much to his surprise. A couple of 
curious witnesses at the gate below hurried away, snick- 
ering over the minister’s rebuff. Mr. Presbrey walked 
very stiffly up the street, dimly conscious of a shy, 
evasive sense of elation, admittedly unbecoming in a man 
of his parts, but singularly insistent, just the same. At 
his own dinner table that evening, he confided certain 
beliefs to his wife, chief among them being the opinion 
that Mr. Blagden was narrow. He even went so far as 
to question that gentleman’s attitude toward the unfor- 
tunate children of Mary Midthome. 

“ Chickens come home to roost,” observed Mr. Pres- 
brey, a remark which may appear vague to the reader 


THE SHADOWS FALB 

of these lines, but not so to Mrs. Presbrey, on whom tho 
inference was not wasted. 

Neither of the Midthomes was seen on the streets that 
day. They kept close to the house, and they spoke in 
^ undertones. All through the long afternoon, they wan- 
dered through the tomb-like house, occasionally pausing 
[ ' in the hallway near the closed door of their uncle’s room 
to listen for sounds from within. Sometimes they won- 
dered if the two people who confined themselves there 
were dead or alive. Only at rare intervals were signs 
of life apparent, such as the shifting of a chair, or the 
tread of slow-moving feet, or the sharp tapping of 
finger-nails on the arms of a well-known rocker in which 
their uncle was wont to sit. 

Mr. Blagden, on his return from the bank at noon, 
had gone directly upstairs, followed by his wife. Ten 
minutes later he emerged alone. He ordered the serv- 
ants to come to the library, and there, in the presence of 
the Midthomes, he announced to the astonished house- 
hold that his son had transgressed the law and was no 
longer a member of the family. He gave no details, 
knowing full well that they would be supplied by willing 
tongues before the day was over, more expansively than 
he could have presented them even if he had been in- 
clined to stoop to the task. 

You may go now,” he said curtly, to a gaping 
audience composed of cook, parlour-maid, waitress, gar- 
dener and stable-man. He had said all that he intended 
to say. “ Bear in mind what I have said about men- 
tioning my son’s name in this house, or in the presence of 
his mother or myself. It is possible, even likely, that he 
may be apprehended and — er, ahem ! — brought back 
to Corinth. If such should be the case, I shall not deny 
him the right to seek the counsel and the help of thq 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


^04i 

two persons who are responsible for his coming into this 
world. This is his home when he chooses to come back 
to it in humility and contriteness. But as long as he 
elects voluntarily to remain a fugitive, a — an outcast, 
you might say, — just so long shall he be regarded as 
an enemy to this household. I am his father. If he 
comes to me for help, for support, — ay, even for love, 
— I shall not fail him. You may go now.” 

Turning to Eric and Mary, as the servants filed out, 
he said: “Your Aunt Rena will not come down to 
luncheon. If you will sit down, I shall try to tell you 
as clearly as I can just what it is that Chetwynd has 
done. I do not expect you to say that you are sorry 
for him. Perhaps I ought not to expect you to be 
sorry for his mother or me. I shall merely ask you to 
be considerate. If you are to gloat over his fall from 
the pedestal on which we placed him, kindly restrain 
yourselves in our presence.” 

At the end of his careful and rather monotonous 
recital, he lowered his chin and fumbled for a moment 
with the tassels on the arm of the chair in which he sat 
facing them. 

“ My children,” he said huskily, “ I am a God-fearing 
man, as you have reason to know. But I am about to 
defy Him. I shall pray to God that my son may never 
live to face these charges. I would rather have him 
take his own life to-day than to continue in the life he 
has begun to lead.” 

He arose and, placing a hand on the shoulder of each, 
looked into their eyes, with a film over his own. 

“ I would give all I have in the world if my son could 
have looked me fairly and frankly in the eyes as you 
have always done. If he could have done that, he would 
not be where he is to-day.” 


THE SHADOWS FALL 


205 


Eric’s gaze wavered for a second, but he managed to 
keep it steady after a mighty effort of the will. “ He 
would not be where he is to-day ! ” The words seemed 
to burn themselves into his very soul. 

“ Adam Carr will not be turned aside,” went on 
Horace, beginning to pace the floor. “ He hates me. 
He will not rest until he has found — him. There is 
no way to keep this dreadful thing from going to the 
public. Before night the newspapers will have it all. 
It — it will kill your aunt, I fear. To think that her 
boy may be hounded for years by one so implacable as 
Adam Carr ! ” He stopped at the table, and from sheer 
force of habit, arranged the magazines on the corner, 
restoring the pile to its accustomed symmetry. His 
was a well-ordered home. Nothing was ever out of 
place. 

“I — I am sorry. Uncle Horace,” murmured the ten- 
der-hearted Mary, tears streaming down her cheeks. 

Eric stood with bowed head, speechless. 

“ This should be a lesson to you, Eric,” said Mr. 
Blagden monotonously. Avoid evil companions at 
college. Keep away from bad women.” 

The habit was strong in him. 

“ Your aunt will be down for dinner. Please bear in 
mind that no reference is to be made to — to all this. 
I have told her of the drawing, Eric. She says she has 
something to tell me when I go back to her. I — I 
trust it is not something she has felt necessary to hide 
from me. If I were you, I would not go out on the 
streets this afternoon. Wait until after nightfall.” 

He left them, and they heard him slowly mount the 
stairs. Then the door to his room was closed gently. 
They did not see him again until dinner time. 

By that time, scores of people had called up the house 


206 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


on the telephone, and at least four correspondents had 
been turned away from the door, only to take up posi- 
tions across the street with note-books ready. Their 
cameras got views of the “ Giant’s Castle ” from all 
sides. One daring chap entered the grounds and photo- 
graphed the rose-bush that Chetwynd had planted on 
his seventh birthday, to which some importance was at- 
tached because up to that season it had home white 
roses, but had been prophetically barren this year. 

No less than a dozen eminently veracious citizens had 
seen young Blagden board a freight train late the 
previous evening, bound for New York. An unhappy 
controversy ensued over that very point. No two of 
them saw him board it at the same place, nor were they 
all agreed that it was a freight train. Some of them 
said it was the express train leaving at 6:11, while 
others mentioned the local at 8:32. John Hawes con- 
versed with the young man in front of Coe’s drugstore 
at seven o’clock, and he was impressed at the time by 
Chetwynd’s nervousness. Mrs. Sanford, of the Second 
Congregational Church choir, was positive she saw a 
very blond young woman with him shortly after eight. 
A strange young woman in Corinth, she was quite sure 
of that. 

Dinner at the Blagden home that night was a dismal 
affair. Mrs. Blagden, very wan and red-eyed, seldom 
looked up from her plate. Mr. Blagden rarely looked 
down from the old-fashioned crystal chandelier, except 
to inspect the dishes set before him by the solemn 
Martha. 

But four places had been laid. There was no empty 
chair at the table for the simple reason that it stood 
back against the wall with others of its kind. 

Of the four who sat there in perfunctory obedience 


THE SHADOWS FALL 


mi 

to custom, Eric Midthorne was the only one who was 
not wondering what the missing member of the family 
was doing at the time. Two of them were tortured by 
the belief that he was in the arms of the woman who had 
dragged him out of the sanctuary they had built around 
him; the third was not so sure that he would not creep 
back into the house when the night was old and the lown 
asleep. 

Eric, alone, knew where Chetwynd Blagden was 
spending the night. 

Shortly after the meal was over, he excused himself 
and left the house, ostensibly to take a short walk about 
the grounds. When he was out of sight around the 
corner of the house, he broke into a run and was soon 
flying across the garden in the direction of Jabez Carr’s 
cottage. Vaulting the high brick wall at the lower 
end of the garden, he raced across the meadow and up to 
the barred gates. There was a light in the window of 
the gate-keeper’s lodge. Eric shouted and rattled the 
gates to attract attention. 

Old Jabez opened the door and peered forth, over his 
spectacles. He was holding a book in his hand. 

‘‘Get away from there!” he roared. “Dang ye, 
you know it’s against orders to let — Hello ! Is that 
you, Eric? What’s up, my lad? ” 

He hurried over to the gate, forgetting his keys in 
his excitement. Suddenly remembering them, he would 
have hobbled back for them but for Eric’s impatient cry. 

“ Don’t open the gate. Where is Mr. Adam? ” 

“ He’s gone to New York, hot on the trail of that 
young scalawag,” said Jabez, lowering his voice as he 
came up to the gate. “ And he’ll get him, too, Eric, 
sure as you’re bom. They never slip away from Adam 
when he once gets wind of ’em. I don’t mind tellki* 


208 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


you, seein’s you don’t love your cousin any too well, that 
Adam’s never goin’ to rest until he lands him where he 
belongs. Say, wasn’t you plumb laid over on your 
beam’s ends by the news? Gee — al — mighty, I bet 
there’s wailin’ and gnashin’ of teeth up there in yonder 
house.” 

The old man’s laugh was almost a cackle, he was so 
excited. 

“He’s gone to New York?” cried Eric blankly. 

“ On the six-something,” said Jabez. “ Say, just 
you wait a minute till I get the keys. I’ve been a-dyin’ 
to talk it over with you.” 

“ I can’t stop,” said Eric shortly. “ Did he say 
when he was coming back ? ” 

“ He won’t come till he fetches Chetwynd with him, 
you can bet on that,” said Adam’s father grimly. “ You 
ain’t likely to see Adam again, my lad, until you see that 
fine cousin of yours. They’ll come back together one 
of these days. Then, we’ll see how Master Horace likes 
— Hey! What’s your hurry? Can’t you stay 
awhile? ” 


CHAPTER XII 

WHO LAUGHS AT LOVE 

Days passed, and no word came from Adam Carr. The 
Blagdens lived in constant fear of a telegram announ- 
cing the capture of their son. They started with every 
ring of the telephone bell. The rattle of the knocker 
on the front door always brought a quick chill of ap- 
prehension. Then they would look at each other, in- 
evitably with the same question in their eyes, always 
with an immediate lowering of the lids. 

There was not an hour in their days and their nights 
in which they were free from the feeling that the front 
door was about to open to admit their son, and that he 
would slink in as if no other refuge was open to him. 

Adam Carr certainly had laid the foundation for a 
sublime revenge. The most Machiavellian mind could 
not have developed a scheme for vengeance so complete 
as the one which chance had put in his way. Barring 
the defection of Eric, the Blagdens might go to the end 
of their days without a single instant of immunity from 
the plague that hung over their heads. 

So long as they lived they would be waiting for the 
home-coming of Chetwynd. 

Adam’s unhappy accomplice appreciated all this, and 
yet could not break the spell that had fallen upon him. 
He was not blind to the suffering of his uncle and aunt. 
In his heart he pitied them. He found it easy to con- 
vince himself that he had not committed murder. His 
conscience was clear as to that. Long hours of miser- 
able reflection had brought surcease to his own troubled 
209 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


SIO 

mind. It was not the thought of Chetwjnd that 
brought remorse to him, but the sight of these tense, 
unsmiling parents, both of whom, bj some miracle of 
nature, suddenly had grown gentle and considerate to- 
ward him and his sister. All the time he knew that he 
was but an instrument in the hands of Fate, and Fate in 
this case was Adam Carr. 

Sometimes he wondered how long he could maintain 
this dreadful silence. In his heart, Eric was honest. 
He realised that he was living part of a great lie and 
that the time was bound to come when he would burst 
the bonds that held him and lay the truth before the 
world. There were moments, indeed, when he felt con- 
fession rushing up to his lips, but always it was stayed 
by the stronger sensation of fear — fear of the scaf- 
fold! If Adam Carr was implacable, what of Horace 
Blagden? How could he hope for mercy at the hands 
of this over-tortured, humiliated man.^^ Horace Blag- 
den would not rest until he had crushed the slayer of 
his son, and with him that inscrutable friend and adviser. 
The law would clamp its jaws on both of them, and that 
w^ould be an end to it. 

Eric was not insensible to the fact that Adam Carr, 
in the beginning, had been actuated by a feeling of 
friendship. He did not question the sincerity of the 
man’s motives on that vital day. Nor was there any 
doubt in his mind that he would prove steadfast and 
true to the compact made at that time. The concep- 
tion of the plan to harass Horace Blagden came after 
that kindly initial impulse. It was something that 
leaped into existence the moment he had time to think 
of the possibilities afforded by the extraordinary com- 
bination of circumstances. Adam was a man to think 
quickly, to see far ahead. It was his business, his trade. 


WHO LAUGHS AT LOVE 


aii 


his training. That he should take advantage of these 
tragic conditions was distressing, even appalling to 
Eric, but what could he do in the premises.? That 
Adam might, at any time, betray him was a thought that 
never entered his mind. 

As the days went by, he became more and more recon- 
ciled to the situation, tense and trying as it was. He 
was not happy. The shadow was always present. And 
yet there was never a time when he could not look his 
uncle or aunt in the eye, and say to himself that not 
he, but Chetwynd himself had put the blight on the 
hearts of these two. He never thought of Mary with- 
out experiencing a thrill of relief, almost gladness, that 
he had a hand, with Fate, in destroying the wretch who 
would have despoiled her of all that was pure and 
sweet. 

After all, Chetwynd had gone down in a fair fight. 
It had been a duel! 

The time was drawing near for his departure for 
Cambridge. His uncle had made all of the arrange- 
ments for his winter. He was to be pleasantly situated 
amidst such surroundings as only a Blagden could com- 
mand. If there remained any of the old bitterness in 
the heart of Horace Blagden, it was being rather skil- 
fully hidden beneath the cloak of kindness. 

And yet Eric was not quite sure of his uncle. There 
were times when he caught the older man looking at him 
with a strangely penetrating but far-away gaze, from 
which he usually brought himself up with a start. At 
such times, the young man was troubled by the vague 
conviction that Mr. Blagden was looking past him and 
into the shadow beyond, as if he was trying to ma- 
terialise the spirits that lurked there in waiting. It 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


was on these occasions that the young man quailed within 
himself, for it seemed to him that his uncle was actually 
projecting his mind into direct communication with the 
spirit of his absent son. 

Needless to say, Mr. Presbrey, not at all discouraged 
by the rebuff of that first distressing day, called on the 
second, and thereafter every day, including Sundays, - 
for weeks to come. It was somewhat of a shock to him 
that Mr. and Mrs. Blagden were unwilling to share their 
troubles with him. In fact, the former so positively 
declared that his son’s name was not to be mentioned in 
the house he had dishonoured that the minister was for 
sometime at a loss how to proceed. 

If he was not to speak of Chetwynd, in the name of 
Heaven what was he to talk about? He had come to 
discuss the cruel pain they suffered. It was very discon- 
certing not to be able to do so. To be compelled to fall 
back upon church finances in the face of such an oppor- 
tunity as this, was not what he had bargained for, arid 
yet, that is precisely what he had to do. 

Moreover, to his great amazement, the Blagdens 
plainly resented a humble desire on his part to do a little 
more good in the world by offering to devote an hour 
or two to Eric and Mary, who, he supposed, were liable 
to neglect in this hour of tribulation. 

“ I think, Presbrey,” said Horace evenly, “ that we’ve 
been a trifle mawkish.” 

‘‘ Mawkish ? ” gasped Mr. Presbrey. 

“ Perhaps that isn’t the word,” explained the other. 

“ I should have said we’ve preached at them until there’s 
really nothing left for us to say.” 

‘‘ You mean, that our duty to them has already been 
fulfilled? ” 


WHO LAUGHS AT LOVE 


21S 


I believe they are quite capable of thinking for 
themselves.” 

Mr. Presbrey stared. “ I trust, Mr. Blagden, you 
do not contemplate — er — I mean you surely do not 
mean to say that you are now indifferent to their spir- 
itual needs and welfare.” 

“ Not at all. I think they have weathered all that 
very nicely.” 

‘‘ I am amazed. For years you have — ” 

“ It is my opinion, Presbrey, that if they are going to 
be saved they will have to do the greater part of the 
work themselves.” 

“ But surely, with God’s help at their — ” 

“ Adam Carr said something to me once that made a 
lasting impression. I believe he is right. He said: 
^ God knows a bad boy as well as anyone else. You 
don’t have to tell Him about it morning, noon and night. 
It isn’t Gospel: it’s gossip. It ain’t proper to gossip 
with the Almighty.’ ” 

My dear sir, I don’t see the relevancy. Carr is a 
scoffer. Surely you are not coming to his way of 
thinking. It — it is unbelievable.” 

“ Nevertheless, my dear friend, it has occurred to 
me that if God knows the bad boy. He’s equally discern- 
ing with respect to the good boy.” 

‘‘ I am quite confident, and always have been, that 
Eric is a good boy, Mr. Blagden,” said Mr. Presbrey 
stiffly. Mr. Blagden felt the sting in his subtle, far-off 
criticism. 

“ Understand me, please, I do not regret the methods 
we have pursued in showing him the right path. We’ve 
done all we could, Presbrey. He will keep to that path 
if he so desires. If he concludes to wander away from 


214 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


it, I don’t believe God or man is going to stop him. It’s 
the thing in here that will keep him straight. God made 
the strong and he made the weak. They go the way 
which is easiest. The strong go up, the weak go down. 
We can’t guide them beyond a certain point. They 
cast us off. The strong don’t need us and the weak 
despise us.” 

Mr. Presbrey left in a state of great depression. He 
had suffered what he was tempted to consider a personal 
loss. A pillar in his temple was wobbling. It was the 
most impeccable pillar, at that, if the metaphor may be 
allowed. If Horace Blagden bent ever so slightly, it 
was extremely doubtful if he, as God’s artisan, could 
hope to restore that portion of the temple to its former 
strength and usefulness. If Horace saw fit to bend, the 
whole of the perfect edifice must needs sag with him. 
Small pillars always are forced to lean in the direction in 
which they are pushed by the larger ones, and sometimes 
they crumble and disintegrate. 

That was the trouble with the church, the world over, 
said Mr. Presbrey. Too many monoliths. 

And, I am sorry to say, Mr. Presbrey felt that he 
himself had been very much put upon by Mr. Blagden 
in the matter of the little Midthornes. Somehow, he 
always had suspected himself of being a sort of cats- 
paw. Now he was quite sure of it. Remorse for their 
treatment of the children seemed to have seized upon the 
Blagdens. Unless he was mistaken in Mr. Blagden, that 
gentleman, in chastising himself, was now coolly shift- 
ing a rather troublesome burden so that it might appear 
to rest on other shoulders. In so many words, so to 
speak, Horace had given him to understand that his 
prayers would be wasted, that they might just as well 


WHO LAUGHS AT LOVE 


215 


be dispensed with. It was rather hard to hear one’s 
earnest prayers catalogued as gossip. 

Mr. Presbrey’s heart was sore as he strode up the 
garden path leading to his own doorway. His wife 
noted the faint flush in his cheeks as he entered the sit- 
ting-room. 

» “ Have they had any news of Chetwynd? ” she asked. 

“ My dear,” said her husband, sitting down rather 
heavily, and quite ignoring her question, ‘‘I have come* 
to the sorrowful conclusion that it is retribution after 
all. God can and will punish those who make use of 
His offices to further their own ends.” 

She was startled. “ Retribution.? Ends.? ” 

“ Mr. Blagden is paying, I firmly believe, for his un- 
christian-like treatment of his sister’s children. Yes, it 
is retribution,” said he, staring hard at the floor. 

‘‘ I’ve always said the time would come,” said she, her 
lips tightening. Her husband had not said it in so many 
words, but she was shrewd enough to see that his visit 
had not been a pleasant one. “ They are such dear chil- 
dren. And look at Chetwynd ! Goodness me ! ” That 
was as near to blasphemy as she ever ventured. 

Her husband’s face brightened. ‘‘If — if we had 
worked as hard over Chetwynd as we did over Eric and 
Mary, we — well, who knows .? ” 

“We couldn’t have saved that boy with all the prayers 
^ in Christendom,” she announced flatly. 

“Oh, my dear! You forget what — ” 

“ I don’t forget anything. God himself couldn’t 
save a Blagden if he didn’t want to be saved.” 

“ Sh I My dear, that is positively sacri — no, it is 
worse than sacrilegious. It is profane. I am sorry 
to hear — ” 


216 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


“ Do you know what I’d do, Arthur, if I were in your 
place?” she interrupted ruthlessly. “I’d have a ser- 
mon on this very thing. There is a moral to be taught, 
an example to be set. I wouldn’t be afraid of Horace 
Blagden.” 

“ I am not afraid of Mr. Blagden,” said her husband 
testily. “ I shall not take unfair advantage of him, 
however. He is in trouble. He needs my private min- 
istrations, not public contumely. No, my dear, I shall 
go to him to-morrow and the day after. Even such as 
Horace Blagden can be of contrite heart.” 

“ You might include Rena Blagden,” said Mrs. Pres- 
brey . “ By the way, what did Horace say to you ? ” 

“ Sh ! ” said Mr. Presbrey, with a quick glance in the 
direction of the dining-room. “ Don’t speak so loudly. 
Maggie is setting the table.” 

“ She never repeats anything she hears here, Arthur. 
Besides, why should we care so long as she is truthful 
I have the utmost confidence in Maggie Green. I don’t 
believe that woman ever uttered a falsehood in her life. 
Oh, that reminds me. She saw Chetwynd on the way 
to the station that very evening, and spoke to him.” 

“ Eric,” said Mary, a few days before he went up to 
Cambridge, “why are you so hateful to Joan? You 
haven’t been near her in weeks, and you seem to avoid 
her everywhere we go.” 

“ Has she said anything to you about it? ” he asked, 
uncomfortably. He was very unhappy over Joan. The 
pain that his own resolve had brought upon him was 
almost more than he could bear. His heart ached for 
her. Their hour of bliss had been so short, and she, at 
least, would not understand why it had ended. There 


WHO LAUGHS AT LOVE 


were moments when he called himself a brute instead of 
a martyr. 

“ She is hurt, Eric, terribly hurt. Honestly, she 
doesn’t seem like the same girl of late. Haven’t you 
noticed that she doesn’t come here any more? ” 

“ I am so busy cramming for my exami — ” he began 
' lamely, sick at heart. 

“ Rubbish ! ” blazed Mary. “ You don’t have to cram. 
You’re just plain disagreeable, that’s all. She has been 
so nice to me about Miss Sinnox’s — and about every- 
•fching else, too. Why are you so mean to her? ” 

“ I must go up to say good-bye to her,” he said, 
shifting his gaze suddenly. 

‘‘ And what’s worse, I don’t understand you. We 
used to go out on Stone Wall every day or two. They 
were jolly times for me. But now — why, now you 
won’t go near the dear old place with me. You never 
get any farther than Uncle Jabe’s, and I’m tired of feed- 
ing the squirrels, if you must know it. We must get 
over being children sometime, Eric. We can’t always 
feed squirrels and listen to ghost stories. Now, you’re 
going away next week, and I shan’t see you till Christ- 
mas-time. Won’t you just try to be nice and agreeable 
for awhile? Be nice to Joan, for my sake.” 

To her astonishment, he turned abruptly and almost 
ran away from her. She heard the sob that broke 
through his drawn lips after his back was turned, and 
she saw the convulsive movement of his shoulders. Then 
she cried out in wonder and dismay, her dear little heart 
instantly filled with love and pity, but he did not turn 
back. Her warm, adorable face went very pale and the 
tears sprang to the lovely eyes. 

The long-expected letter from Adam Carr came that 


^18 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


same afternoon. Greatly agitated, Eric refrained from 
opening it at the house, or in the presence of others, but 
hurried off to the seclusion of the woods above the town. 
Here he had spent many hours during the past few 
weeks, alone with his meditations. The broad green 
meadows stretched out below the borders of the forest, 
sinking gently toward the rock-girt coast to the north of 
Todville on the Point. Here at the edge of the wood- 
land the shade was most inviting on the hot summer 
days, cooled by the breezes from the sea, and moist with 
the breath of ferns and the mosses. The blazing sun 
of midday never penetrated this sheltered area, nor were 
its rays intense enough to shrivel the bright green grass 
that carpeted the sunken meadows. 

Eagerly he devoured the news from his strange ad- 
viser and accomplice. Adam wrote from New Orleans, 
where he had gone, he said, in connexion with a matter 
quite foreign to the Blagden affair. He was writing, 
however, to the president of the bank to inform him 
that the defaulter had sailed for a port at present un- 
known to him, but that “ time would tell.” There was 
a grim, relentless humour in his reference to Chet- 
wynd’s whereabouts. Of course (he went on), Eric had 
kept himself informed as to the earlier features of the in- 
vestigation and the chase. He must have seen in the 
newspapers that Bunnie De Vinne quite readily satis- 
fied the authorities, as well as himself, that she knew ab- 
solutely nothing of young Blagden. She was particu- 
larly eager to have it known that she had not been ‘‘ keen 
about him” at any time. Indeed, she averred, in a 
language of her own, Chetwynd made her tired and she 
had chucked him weeks before the smash-up. She ad- 
mitted that he had spent a neat bit of money on her, 
but that it wasn’t a marker to what other girls were 


WHO LAUGHS AT LOVE 


^19 


getting. In fact, it really wasn’t much more than pin 
money, as the wind was blowing in other quarters. Miss 
De Vinne, with an asperity that did not go very well with 
her scornful attitude, gave it as her belief that Chet- 
wynd had taken up with a girl named Blanche Some- 
thing-or-other, she couldn’t recall her last name, which 
wasn’t her own, anyway. 

Adam went on to say that he had made it a point to 
ferret out Miss Blanche Some-thing-or-other. He 
found her on the road with a big burlesque show, mak- 
ing Philadelphia and Boston as side steps from Broad- 
way. Her contract, it seems, stipulated that she was 
to go no farther away from New York than these two 
cities, and she was to play in no one-night stands. She 
had a very small salary, but diamond-pin money. It 
was not difficult for her to prove that she knew nothing 
of young Blagden’s whereabouts. He certainly was not 
“ trailing her.” 

In the concluding paragraph of this unsatisfying 
letter, Adam very briefly expressed the hope that Eric’s 
first year in Harvard would be a splendid one. Rather 
grimly he suggested that the “ first year is always the 
hardest to get through, no matter what you’re undertak- 
ing. After that, it’s easy.” Proceeding, he urged 
him to allow no outside influences to worry him, but to 
devote all his time and energies to the work ahead. 
Then he signed himself, “ Your staunch friend until 
death, Adam Carr,” underlining the words ‘‘ until 
death.” 

It was Adam’s way of convincing his friend that his 
secret was safe. 

Eric re-read the letter several times, conscious of a 
primal disappointment that gradually gave way before 
a sense of security in view of the really subtle wording 


220 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


of the epistle. Adam told him everything, and yet to 
the casual observer there was nothing to be seen between 
the lines. Of one thing Eric could be sure: the man 
meant to keep up the travesty of hounding Horace Blag- 
den’s son until he tired of the sport, after which it 
would be a simple matter to end it all by producing evi- 
dence of his quarry’s death in some obscure corner of 
the world. 

The young man folded the sheets and was restoring 
them to the envelope when his attention was attracted by 
a sound near at hand, — a sound as of someone stealthily 
moving in the fern banks beyond the tree against which 
he leaned his back. He whirled and partially rose to his 
feet, a vast sense of alarm assailing him. 

Not twenty feet away stood Joan Bright, her gaze 
full upon him. Something in her eyes told him that 
she had been standing there for some time, shy and un- 
certain as to whether she should accost him or flee the 
place in confusion. He came to his feet in an instant, 
paling and flushing by turns. Her serious dark eyes 
wavered and the lids were lowered for a second; then 
she met his gaze resolutely. 

‘‘ I saw you from the road, Eric,” she said simply. 
He was struck by the hurt, appealing look in her eyes. 
It shamed him. “ What have I done, Eric ? What has 
happened to — to — ” She flushed piteously and could 
not go on. 

He sprang forward, clasping the hands that were 
raised as if to ward him off. 

“ Oh, J oan,” he cried, casting his resolve to the 
winds, “ I haven’t changed, I swear I haven’t. I love 
you a thousand times more than I ever did. I — “ I 
would die for you. It breaks my heart to have you feel 
as you do — ” 


WHO LAUGHS AT LOVE 


221 

She broke in plaintively: “What have I done,, 
Eric?” 

“You? What have you done?” The tears were 
swimming in his eyes. She withdrew one of her hands, 
but only to lay it tenderly against his cheek. “ You 
ought to hate me, Joan. Pve been a beast to treat you j 
as I have. But I couldn’t do otherwise. I had to do . 
it. I can’t let you go on loving me.” 

She drew away from him, as if he had struck her in 
the face. Her eyes grew wide with pain and wonder. 

“You — you mean, Eric, you don’t want me for 
your sweetheart any longer? ” she said, scarcely above a 
whisper. That piteous look was more than he could 
bear. 

“ I love you — Oh, how I love you,” he cried. “ I 
shouldn’t have said that to you. I — I don’t know what 
I am saying. I do want you. I shall always want 
you. Don’t cry, Joan — please don’t! I’ll — I’ll get 
down on my knees and beg you to forgive — ” 

She came up to him swiftly, her eyes gleaming 
through the tears of vanquished shame, her lips tremu- 
lous with a smile of perplexity. Her hands, both of 
them, were pressed to his lips, cutting short the sen- 
tence. 

“ I don’t understand you, Eric. How queer you are. 
Don’t you know — don’t you knou; that I want you to 
be — to be what you said you’d be. My sweetheart. 
Oh, Eric, I’ve been so miserable. Something has hap- 
pened. You must tell me.” 

He kissed her fingers hungrily. Then he clasped her 
slim, yielding body in his strong young arms and kissed 
her lips again and again. Her arm went up about his 
neck and everything was forgotten. 

Slowly he came to his senses. He held her away from? 


^22 MARY MIDTHORNE 

him, still panting from the fervour of his wild, uncon- 
trolled passion. 

‘‘ Listen, Joan,” he began dully, at a loss for words. 

I — I ought not to hold you to your promise. You 
don’t know — ” 

^ She gave him a ravishing smile. Surely, in all the 
world, there was no one so lovely as Joan Bright in that 
wonderful moment. 

“ I don’t see how you can help yourself,” she cried. 

I shall hold you to yours. How can you say such a 
thing to me after — after this ? ” 

Suddenly her eyes grew dark with doubt and misgiv- 
ing. Something in his white, drawn face smote out the 
light in her eyes. 

“ What is it, Eric.? Tell me,” she said. 

He shook his head, dumb with despair. 

“ Sit down here with me, dear,” she went on. I 
don’t care what it is, it can’t change my feeling toward 
you. Nothing can do that.” 

They sank to the soft, green turf, his arm about her 
shoulders, his back against the tree. She waited a long 
time for him to speak. It seemed to him that she was 
holding her breath. 

“You — you said we were sweethearts, Eric,” she 
breathed. “ I believed you. Didn’t you mean it.? ” 

Unconsciously he gripped her hand so tightly that it 
must have hurt her, yet she did not appear to feel the 
pain. 

He was at the point of blurting out the whole dev- 
astating truth. His honest soul saw no other way out 
of it. It was right and just that she should know, that 
she should understand why he had behaved so strangely 
toward her. 

Then he remembered his compact with Adam Carr< 


WHO LAUGHS AT LOVE 


223 


He recalled his friend’s cold, almost soulless admonition : 
“ Don’t let this little accident of yours alter a single 
purpose or hope you now may cherish. Go on, just as 
if it hadn’t happened. It wasn’t the strength of your 
arm that did it, but the weakness of that blamed rail- 
ing.” He was never to forget that speech. Part of it 
was like Adam Carr, part of it reminded him not a little 
of Mr. Presbrey, incongruous as it may appear. 

“ Of course, I meant it,” he cried, his handsome young 
face aglow with the rebound of blood. “ I’m never 
going to give you up, Joan. I’m not afraid any longer. 
Something happened not long ago — I can’t tell you 
what it was — that made it look as though I couldn’t 
go on being the same. It almost killed me. Something 
that made it appear wrong for me to — to go on, that’s 
all. But what’s the use going on with anything, if I 
can’t have you to think of, to look up to, to wait for 
and to work for? You’re everything, Joan, everything, 
and always will be.” 

She was smoothing his hair with a timid, loving hand. 
Somehow, the gentle caress was rubbing away the trou- 
bles that clogged his brain. The world was growing 
brighter. 

‘‘Was — was it what happened to Chetwynd? ” she 
asked softly. 

He started guiltily. The look in his eyes passed in a 
second, however. “ It had something to do with it,” he 
said, with an involuntary glance toward the sea. 

“ Why should it make any difference to us? ” she asked 
quickly. “ You are not to blame for the awful things 
he did.” 

“ I know,” he admitted uncomfortably. 

Was it because you thought I — or father, for that 
matter, — would let that alter our opinion of you? ” 


MARY MIDTHORNK 


He smiled wearily, stroking her hand. 

She went on eagerly : “ It couldn’t be so, Eric. 

Father thinks you are the finest boy he knows. He 
never approved of Chetwynd. You couldn’t possibly 
be the — the same as he.” 

“ But, you know they all prophesy a worse ending 
' for me,” he said gloomily, without realising that his 
secret thoughts were crowding to the surface. 

“ Pooh ! ” she cried. “ I know what you mean. 
Mary has told me all the things they’ve said to you. 
But that can’t happen. You — why, Eric, dear, you 
just couldn’t kill anybody. You are too tender and 
sweet-hearted. Oh, I know you ! ” She kissed the 
brown fingers that were convulsively carried to her lips. 

The fingers of the very hand that sent Chetwynd 
against the treacherous railing! 

A low, mocking laugh came from the wood behind 
them, a laugh that brought a rush of icy perspiration 
through every pore in Eric’s body. He whirled and 
peered into the shadows, his lips parted in a sort of 
stupefying horror. 

It was the mean, never-to-be-forgotten laugh of Chet- 
^ wynd Blagden! 

The girl drew back in amazement. 

“What is it, Eric?” she cried. 

“ Didn’t you hear it ? ” he gasped. 

“ Hear what ? ” 

“ The laugh. Good heavens, Joan, didnH you hear 
it? ” 

“ No, you silly boy. You must be dreaming,” she 
cried merrily. 

He could see no one among the trees. They were 
absolutely alone. He sank back against the tree, limp 


WHO LAUGHS AT LOVE ^25 

and weak. Passing his hand over his wet forehead, he 
muttered : 

“I — I thought I heard — but I must have been mis- 
taken. There is no one, is there.? ” 

‘‘ There are some men repairing the bridge at Bud’s 
Rock,” she said. “ I saw them this morning. But 
that is half a mile away. They are putting up new 
railings.” 

He arose abruptly. Come,” he said nervously, 
‘‘ let’s go home, Joan. It’s later than I thought.” 

They hurried off across the smooth, green meadow, 
into the hot sunshine. He led her directly away from 
the cool, inviting shade of the wood, ignoring her pro- 
tests. 

“ It’s shorter this way,” he argued lamely, but that 
afforded slight content to her. He was clasping her 
hand in his and he was saying over and over again, as 
much to himself as to her: “We will be sweethearts 
always. Nothing can ever come between us now, Joan.” 

“ As if there could be any danger of that,” she said 
simply. 

The third day after this meeting at the edge of the 
wood, Eric departed for Cambridge, firm in his decision 
to let nothing stand in the way of his happiness with 
Joan Bright. 

But he was not soon to get over the shock of the 
imaginary laugh that came to him from nowhere, from 
no one in this world. 


CHAPTER XIII 


HORACE WRITES A LETTER 

^At the end of four years, Eric Midthome came 
out of Harvard. He prepared at once for the exam- 
inations of the Beaux Arts in Paris and passed them 
successfully, standing high among the Americans who 
went through. 

During the summer of his twenty-first year, and 
while he was still an undergraduate at Cambridge, his 
uncle, after divulging the nature of the legacy which 
was to fall to him, spent hours out of each day in 
counselling the young man as to the wisest and best 
way to make the most of his grandfather’s bequest. 
There would be more than one hundred thousand dol- 
lars coming to him. A solid nest egg, Mr. Blagden 
was wont to remark, notwithstanding the fact that the 
funds were so diversely invested that Eric was once in- 
clined to observe, with ill-timed facetiousness, that it 
might be better to call it a scrambled egg. His Uncle 
Horace repaid the effort with a pained, yet tolerant 
frown, as if to say: “ Harvard is not what he was in 
my day.” He always spoke of his alma mater in the 
masculine sense, because, he argued, the college was 
named for and after a man, not a woman. Merely a 
little stitch in the character of Horace Blagden. 

On his twenty-first birthday, Eric found himself not 
only a man, but a free agent insofar as his inheritance 
was concerned. There were bonds and mortgages, bank 
stocks and building-lots, to say nothing of holdings 

m 


» 


HORACE WRITES A LETTER 


22T 


in nearly every public utility concern in the city of 
Corinth. 

“ You will have an income of nearly ten thousand 
dollars,” announced Horace, after filing his final report 
as guardian. In other words, the best New England 
rates. That is what it came to. 

“Uncle Horace,” said Eric, as they left the court- 
house together, “I feel that I owe you a great deal 
that cannot be repaid in thanks. You have spent a 
great deal of money in caring for Mary and me ” 

Horace checked him with a gesture. “ Pray do not 
labour under the delusion, Eric, that you and Mary have 
been — er, ahem — subsisting on charity. You did 
not pay strict attention to the reading of my final re- 
port, I fear. It is a very bad habit to get into. Al- 
ways pay attention to such things. My report, asi 
usual, sets forth all the expenditures for the year. You 
will find, if you examine it even casually, that you owe 
nothing to me — er — ahem! — I mean in a substan- 
tial way. I shall be fully repaid by an expression of 
gratitude.” 

He was unconsciously ironic. Not for the world 
would he have had it appear so. It was his way of 
informing Eric that he had charged up his “ board and 
keep,” through all those years, to running expenses. 

“ You mean,” said Eric, a trifle dazed, “ that Mary 
and I have paid for — for what we’ve had from you.? ” 

“ Precisely.” 

« I — I wish I had known that long ago,” muttered 
the young man, staring straight before him, his jaws 
set. 

“ I want to set you straight as to one thing, Eric,”^ 
said his uncle steadily. He took the young man’s arm 


228 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


in his hand, an unprecedented bit of informality on 
his part. “ I fear that you may conceive the idea that 
I am niggardly in this matter. Believe me, I am the 
one who pays. I am the one who filed the reports — 
open reports, mind you — showing that I have charged 
up to my own sister’s children the cost of their food, 
their clothes, their bringing-up. The whole of Corinth 
knows that I have done this thing. So, you see, I get 
my pay in the sneers that pass behind my back — yes, 
sometimes in these later days, before my eyes. But I 
had an understanding with myself when I took you 
into my home years ago, in face of the opposition of 
your shiftless relatives in the South. I did not intend 
you to come as charity wards, so to speak. I did not 
love you sufficiently well to bestow charity upon you. 
To be frank, I resented you both bitterly. But, I am 
a fair man. Your Southern relatives were proud. 
They would not have had you become objects of char- 
ity. I told them that a Blagden was never an object 
of charity. A Blagden would pay for his own out of 
his own. You are Blagdens, both of you. To-day 
you can look me in the face and say that you do not 
owe me a dollar. You are independent, Eric. I have 
seen to it that you who came to me against your will, 
who remained in my house all these years because you 
could not help yourself, — I say I’ve seen to it that 
you are under no pecuniary obligation to me. You 
have paid me, out of your inheritance, for everything 
you have received, and so has Mary.” 

“ Uncle Horace, I — ” 

Just a moment, please. I am not so penurious as 
you think. My will has been made, Eric, these many 
years. In it there is a special clause, restoring to you 
every penny of the money I used in the payment of 


HORACE WRITES A LETTER 


229 


these — er, ahem ! — fixed charges, you might say. I 
say it is a special clause, because during the last year 
I altered my will in one other and somewhat vital par- 
ticular. I will not go into that, however.” 

His lean grey face hardened as he uttered the last 
sentence ; a far-away look came into his eyes. 

“ But I can’t think of taking back ” — began Eric, 
all at sea over the strange turn of affairs. 

“ You can’t help yourself, my boy,” said Horace 
Blagden, kindly. “ Sit down here with me on this 
bench. It’s cool here, and of late the sun appears to 
be affecting me oddly. Eric, your aunt and I are 
proud of you. In spite of ourselves, we have always 
liked you and Mary. If we were harsh with you, it 
was because we were envious — even jealous. It isn’t 
so hard to say that, either. And, believe me, there was 
a time when we honestly feared for your future. That 
is why — ” here a thin smile broke on his lips, — “ we 
set Mr. Presbrey on you. I hope you will forgive us 
that. And yet, don’t misunderstand me, I believe he 
did you more good than you will admit. Well, you 
are twenty-one. You are going to be a credit to all 
of us — living and dead. Your middle name is Blag- 
den, don’t forget that. I say we are proud of you. 
My boy, it is more than that with me. I am fond of 
you. I will not say that your aunt is not quite as 
much so — er, ahem ! — as I am. I want you to know 
that I love you for your fairness, your gentleness, your 
honesty. You are a good boy, Eric. I would to God 
you were my son.” 

Eric was dumbfounded. An older and keener judge 
of human nature would not have been deceived into- 
believing that a generous impulse moved Horace ta 
that unhappy lament. It was an exposition of the- 


230 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


quintessence of selfishness. He was thinking only of a 
personal gain that had been denied him in Nature’s 
distribution. But Eric did not know this. He was 
touched by the unhappy cry from the great man’s soul. 
A sudden desire came over him to lift the dreadful sus- 
pense that was hanging over his uncle’s head. 

“ Uncle Horace, I want to tell you something that 
may make it easier for you about — Chetwynd. It 
has been a — ” 

Mr. Blagden turned on him coldly. 

“ Stop right there ! ” he said without raising his 
voice, but with a look in his eyes that served better than 
^ shout of command. You are not to mention his 
name, sir. I have told you so before. There is noth- 
ing you can say that will make — But there ! I am 
forgetting myself. We will resume our talk concern- 
ing your investments. They are safe and sound, and 
I sincerely hope you will condescend to manage them 
^s carefully as I have done, as your guardian, and as 
your grandfather did before me. Do not put your 
fortune into the hands of the Jews. It is safe enough 
in Corinth. By Jews I mean the tendrils of New 
York. They suck up gold as the plants suck in the 
dew. I hate a Jew. Have you noticed there are no Jews 
in Corinth.? ” 

“A Jew couldn’t live in Corinth, Uncle,” said Eric, 
who hated the town. “ He’d starve to death.” 

His uncle closed one eye and a grim smile showed 
itself faintly at the comers of his mouth. 

I fancy he would,” said he. “ It is a far cry from 
Corinth to New York.” 

“ Why shouldn’t I leave my affairs in your hands. 
Uncle, just as they have been.? ” Eric observed after a 
moment’s reflection. “ I’d only ask for a certain por- 


HORACE WRITES A LETTER 


231 


tion of the income — enough to live on, you see. Is it 
asking too much of you, sir? ” 

Horace laid his hand on the young man’s knee. “ I 
think they would be safer in my hands than in yours> 
my boy. At least, for a few years. I will continue 
to look after them for you on the condition that you 
agree in writing to — er — ahem ! — to allow me abso- 
lute control over them.” 

“For a certain length of time, sir,” said Eric stead- 
ily. “ I believe I can manage for myself when I am a 
little older.” 

“ Quite right. We’ll say five years. You will be 
married by that time, I daresay.” 

Eric blushed. He had been with Joan Bright that 
very morning. 

“ Who knows ? ” he mused evasively. 

And so it was agreed between them that Horace 
Blagden was to have control of Eric’s fortune for a 
term of years. A business transaction, pure and sim- 
ple, said Mr. Blagden, in which he proposed to serve 
as agent at a much lower rate of compensation than 
Eric could hope to obtain from the Jews. It was 
quite a satisfactory arrangement all around, for Eric 
would not have had him act without compensation. 

Eric was past twenty-two when he prepared for the 
Beaux Arts. He was to be abroad for at least two 
years. Long before he completed his work at Harvard, 
he was promised a commission — his first real work as 
an architect and builder. 

Judge Bright was to be his first client. The young 
man was to design and build for him a new and mag- 
nificent home in Upper Corinth, a structure that would 
cost no less than one hundred and fifty thousand dol- 
lars. 




MARY MIDTHORNE 


“ I’d sooner entrust the j ob to you, Eric, than to 
any of those chaps in Boston, with all their training 
and prestige,” said the Judge to the surprised and over- 
whelmed under-graduate. “ You’ve got ideas, and 
that’s what I want. Think over the plans while you’re 
in Paris, and, in case you write to Joan, who is the one 
you’ll have to please, after all, discuss them with her. 
She’s got ideas, too.” 

Of course, when the news got abroad in Corinth that 
a boy of twenty-four was to build Judge Bright’s pa- 
latial residence, the like of which Corinth had never 
seen except as a trespasser, there was a general sniff 
of amazement. More than one of the selectmen and 
practically the entire congregation of the First Con- 
gregational Church remonstrated with the Judge, admit- 
ting that it was none of their business, of course, and 
declaring that they liked Eric, and all that, and that 
he would be a great architect some day, but for heaven’s 
sake, et cetera, et cetera. 

Joan was not so pessimistic. 

“ I’ll help you with the plans, Eric,” she announced 
blissfully. “ We must make no mistake. It must be per- 
fect in every respect. Because, don’t you see, you and 
I will live in it some day.” 

Eric held up his hands in horror. “ Joan, Joan ! 
Do you really think I’ll live in Corinth after I’ve got a 
good start in the world.? Do you think I’d bury myself 
and you here ? ” 

“ It’s a nice old place,” she protested. 

“ So is the world a nice old place. We’ll go out and 
live in it somewhere.” 

“ But papa’s building this house for me,” she la- 
mented. 

He looked glum. ‘‘It’s a deuce of a dilemma.. I 


HORACE WRITES A LETTER 233 

can’t give you up and I won’t give up the commis- 
sion.” 

“Well, why should we borrow trouble.?” she cried 
gaily. “ Father will live in it for years and years. 
We can spend some of our time with him, Eric. We 
must. And, listen! I have it. When we’re quite old 
we can close it in the winter and let it in the summer 1 ” 

We must not forget Adam Carr. It would not be 
fair to him, if we pause but for a moment to consider 
his own capacity for not forgetting. There were 
months during which Eric heard nothing of the man, 
then suddenly he would appear, as if from nowhere, 
calmly to resume relations as if they had separated no 
longer ago than the night before. He would drop in 
on the young man at his rooms in Cambridge, always 
without warning but never by any chance when he was 
away or when he had company there. Or he would 
be sitting in the shade of the trees that surrounded 
old Jabez Carr’s watch-house above Todville, quite as 
if he always had been sitting there, smoking a pipe 
with his father and staring intently at the squirrels 
that never quite got over being afraid to approach 
him. Or, again, he would come upon Eric in a New 
York thoroughfare, never saying “how-do-you-do,” 
but always beginning a conversation with some remark 
which fitted in precisely with the thoughts that were 
in the young man’s mind at the moment. It was un- 
canny, and yet Eric never experienced a single sensa- 
tion of uneasiness or repulsion. Somehow, it seemed 
to him that Adam Carr was so much a part of his own 
existence that he was with him in spirit at all times, 
no matter how great the distance that separated their 
bodies. 

Once, just before commencement day, Adam appeared 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


on the campus. He came up from behind and spoke 
to Eric, who turned without surprise, as though he had 
been aware of his presence all the time. You would 
have thought he was continuing a conversation that 
had not been diverted for a moment, much less by a 
lapse of five months or more. 

“ I guess Horace has about given up hope of Chet- 
wynd ever turning up to be forgiven,” he remarked, 
in the most casual manner. 

Again, one night in the Champs Elysees, he came 
upon the young American unexpectedly. 

“What’s the news from Corinth?” he asked, with- 
out preamble, speaking as if from the darkness. Eric 
turned to find his queer friend standing at his elbow, 
idly gazing at the gaudy retinue of King Sasowith of 
Cambodia, who was returning, with all his wives and 
concubines, from Pre Catalin, where he had been the 
unit of attraction since the sun went down. 

This time, Eric confided to the detective that the 
situation was “ getting on his nerves.” 

“ Pm so sorry for them that Pve half a mind to tell 
the truth, Mr. Adam,” he said, in the course of con- 
versation. “ Why, they’re simply grieving their hearts 
out. It would be the greatest blessing in the world if 
they knew that he could never come back.” 

Adam chuckled. “ I suppose you think old Horace 
would fall on your neck and say thank you kindly, 
eh? Well, he wouldn’t, my boy. He’d see to it that 
you fell on your own neck, after a drop of five or six 
feet. Be patient. Before long I’ll report to him that 
CKetwynd is no more. It may interest you to know 
that I drop Horace a line occasionally to let him know 
that I’m still on the look-out for his erring ofF-spring. 
It’s getting to be somewhat of a tax on me, writing 


HORACE WRITES A LETTER 


235 


these letters. I’ve always hated to write letters. One 
of these days, — soon, perhaps, — I’ll get so tired of 
it that I’ll put an end to our one-sided correspondence 
by announcing that Chetwynd is dead. Jumped over- 
board just as I was about to nab him on a ship some- 
where in the Atlantic. Body not recovered. See.? 
That will end it all, and Horace can sleep in peace.” 

“ For heaven’s sake, do it soon, Mr. Adam.” 

‘‘ I’ll think it over.” 

‘‘ You are a hard man.” 

‘‘ But not so hard as Horace Blagden.” 

‘‘ He is changed.” 

“Umph!” 

Regular letters came to Eric from his sister and 
from Joan, — airy, newsy ones from Mary, loving ones 
with no news in them from Joan. The greatest piece 
of news that came from Mary, who dealt with it by the 
page, and which was briefly treated by Joan, was the 
staggering information that the congregation had asked 
for Mr. Presbrey’s resignation. This news came while 
Eric was in Munich, completing a brief course of study 
in that city, some little time before he was to return to 
America. He had gone first to Vienna and then to 
Munich, after finishing the course at the Beaux 
Arts. 

From aU that he could make out of the disconnected, 
almost exuberant letter, Mr. Presbrey had undertaken 
to put himself and God over and above Horace Blagden 
in the management of the church, with dire conse- 
quences to at least one of the allies, (I am quoting 
Mary almost literally.) It seemed that Mr. Presbrey 
misconstrued a certain listlessness on the part of the 
great man of Corinth*; he took it that Mr. Blagden 
was losing his force as a dominant leader, that he no 


S36 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


longer held the reins in a rigid grip, so to speak. The 
worthy pastor took heart. He assumed an independence 
that, through cultivation, grew rapidly into arrogance. 
He openly defied Horace at a time when it seemed most 
unlikely that that gentleman would rise from the ashes 
of his hopes to take issue with him. 

The controversy had a trivial beginning. Mr. Pres- 
brey “ took sides ” in a choir squabble. The soprano 
and the tenor, it appears, quarrelled over the proper 
way to interpret a duet in one of the Easter anthems. 
The fact that it was a contralto and bass duet doesn’t 
seem to have mattered, although you’d think it would. 
The bass and the contralto were not consulted. They 
were ignored. Fortunately for the congregation, they 
sung it in their own sweet way and no one was aware 
of the fact that the anthem was ruthlessly spoiled until 
it became known that the soprano and tenor were not 
on speaking terms with each other. 

Then the pews began to take notice of the dissen- 
sion in the loft. Inside of a fortnight, the entire con- 
gregation was involved. Mr. Presbrey came out flat- 
footed for the tenor, who, on week-days, gave vocal 
lessons in respectable support of a teacher in the Sun- 
day school, — his wife, by the way, — and did not smoke 
nor drink. Moreover, he advised his pupils to abstain 
from smoking and drinking. Neither habit was good 
for the voice, he explained. The soprano, on the other 
hand, was a good-looking young woman, who went to 
Boston twice a week to take lessons, and who spent all 
she earned on hats and things to bedeck herself with, 
so that the men in the pews would think she could sing, 
though their wives told them she couldn’t. Also she 
was given to singing secular songs of a rather buoyant 
character at public entertainments in the opera house. 


HORACE WRITl^S A LETTER 23T 

and she had spent an entire season in the chorus of the 
English Opera Company in Boston, ostensibly for the 
training it was said, but, according to certain ladies 
in the congregation, in the hope that she might some 
day be requested to appear in tights. The soprano 
was conscious of a very good figure. 

Well, to get back to Mary’s letter: Mr. Blagden 
suddenly threw off his lethargy. The soprano, it so 
happened, had been elevated to the choir on his recom- 
mendation, and as he paid the weekly salaries of the 
quartette out of his own purse, no one had the right 
to object to his selection, although nearly every woman 
in the church knew of someone better qualified than 
Miss Smith. And so, in the midst of the petty strife, 
Horace, like the big man that he was, snapped his 
fingers smartly and the whole congregation scurried 
back to the fold in a most amiable way. The surprised 
Mr. Presbrey was left alone, a shorn, stark figure to 
face the result of his convictions. 

He resolved to stand his ground. The soprano must 
go. Likewise the fiddler who came in occasionally to play 
obligatos to her solos. The First Congregational 
Church was not a dance house. 

To the intense amazement of everyone, he bluntly 
announced in open meeting that a new soprano would 
be engaged for the ensuing quarter. Horace could 
hardly believe his ears. 

“ Miss Smith is hired by the year, Mr. Presbrey,’^ 
he said stiffly, arising from his seat in Congregational- 
meeting. 

“ I trust you will pardon the liberty I take in re- 
minding you, Mr. Blagden, that she is not hired by the 
congregation,” remarked the minister, mildly. 

Horace responded with his wintry smile. “ By the 


238 MARY MIDTHORNE 

same token, she should be dismissed by the person wha 
hires her.” 

“ A change is absolutely necessary, sir.” 

Horace was thoughtful for a moment. ‘‘ I under- 
stand they need a soprano in the Second Church. If 
you insist on her leaving this church, I shall be very 
glad to recommend her for the position there.” 

The threat in these words was too thinly veiled to 
escape the attention of the members who filled the chapel. 
No matter how gravely they had divided against each 
other in the choir squabble, they became a unit of ap- 
prehension in view of the catastrophe that suddenly 
loomed up before them. 

If Miss Smith went to the Second Church, there 
also would go the mighty Blagdens. And then, what 
would become of the mortgage on the church 

Someone sprang to his feet and suggested that the 
matter be deferred for a fortnight or so. Mr. Pres- 
brey had the temerity to say the Second Church could 
have Miss Smith and be welcome to all she could bring 
with her. 

That was the beginning. It went from bad to worse, 
Mr. Presbrey finally resorting to personalities. He 
said that it was time to throw off the yoke. Mr. 
Blagden, he explained, was scarcely the one to regulate 
the policies of a great church when one stopped to 
consider the unhappy results of his efforts to bring 
up his own son in Christ. Moreover, had it not been 
for the intervention of himself and Mrs. Presbrey, those 
two excellent young persons, the Midthomes, might 
have been hectored into a natural defiance of all the 
laws of God and man, simply because the home in- 
fluences that surrounded them were not calculated to 
inspire gentleness of spirit or contriteness of heart. 


HORACE WRITES A LETTER 


239 


With an equal chance, Chetwynd could have been saved, 
but no ! The parents of that young man stood be- 
tween him and the true agents of God. They set them- 
selves over against their closed gates and said to God’s 
minister: “ Hands off. This is ours.” 

At this juncture, Horace, pallid as a ghost, arose 
from his chair and, without looking to right or left, 
stalked from the chapel, followed by his wife, whose 
whitened head was bent and whose limbs tottered. 

The next day, bright and early, Horace Blagden 
sent out a command to the officers and chief men of the 
First Church. They obeyed, and three o’clock found 
all of them gathered in the private offices of the banker. 
They came away from that meeting with grave faces 
and troubled hearts, but just the same, they affected 
no sign of hesitancy in asking Mr. Presbrey for his 
resignation. 

The minister was dumbfounded. He had known all 
along that he was kicking against the pricks but, to 
quote Uncle Jabez Carr, ‘‘ he didn’t know there was a 
mule waitin’ to kick back when he was a-lookin’ t’other 
way.” 

Mr. Presbrey refused to resign. A great hullabaloo 
ensued. Corinth had never known the like of it. Tod- 
ville chuckled, and, to a man, came out for Mr. Pres- 
brey. The same spirit inflated the narrow by-ways 
along the water-front until they were ready to burst 
with acclaim. Notwithstanding Mr. Presbrey ’s rigor- 
ous efforts to reform that section of town, or to ob- 
literate it entirely, the saloon-keepers, the brothel-house 
owners, and the human dregs of Corinth joyfully took 
sides with him in the fight against Horace Blagden, 
a rather anomalous condition, you may say, but per- 
fectly natural if you pause to consider the relative in- 


240 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


fluence of the two contenders. Lower Corinth had no 
fear of God, but it slunk away from Horace Blagden. 
Therefore, if it could destroy Horace, there would be 
Nothing to fear. 

A subsequent letter from Mary informed Eric that 
Mr. Presbrey was to open a school for boys on the old 
Dexter farm, just above Corinth. A youngish man 
from Boston was likely to be called to the First Church. 
He had preached for two Sundays on trial and Uncle 
Horace was quite enthusiastic over him. 

Few and far between were the letters the young man 
received from his uncle. They were always of a busi- 
ness nature, absolutely undeviating in that respect. 
Drafts from dividends, reports on properties, and mat- 
ters of that sort. There never was a letter from Aunt 
Rena. She made no effort to be friendly. 

But one day, a month before he was to sail for 
home, Eric received from his uncle a letter that sorely 
disturbed his peace of mind. It revived the old dread 
that grew up with him from childhood and which had 
lain dormant for the past few years — the dread of 
the prophecy concerning himself and Mary. He had 
killed his man. That much of it was fulfilled. Now, 
what of Mary.?^ Was she to fulfil her part of the ugly 
prophecy 

His uncle, after apologising for calling his attention 
to the unpleasant matter to follow, wrote: 

‘‘ I am very glad to hear that you are coming home. 
It is not, as I have stated before in this letter, my cus- 
tom to interfere in the affairs of others. Since you 
and Mary reached an age that warranted the belief 
that you would be capable of thinking soundly for 
yourselves, I have not undertaken to obtrude my opin- 
ions, much less to offer criticism of any act or impulse. 


HORACE WRITES A LETTER 


241 

You, Eric, I knew to be level-headed and steady. I 
have had no fears for you. Regarding Mary, I can- 
not speak so confidently. She is wayward and she is 
extremely pretty. The combination is not as desirable 
as it may seem, as viewed from the vantage point of an 
older head. We have tried to keep the path she trav- 
erses clean and free from contaminating influences. 
But she sees fit to resent our thoughtful consideration. 
I am not pretending to you, even delusively, that she 
has overstepped the bounds of propriety in any sense 
of the term. I believe Mary to be a good girl and 
pure-minded. 

“ You recall young Pay son. He is now, as you 
doubtless know, living in New York, where he has a 
position with a large bond house — a responsible po- 
sition, I hear. He belongs to several clubs and is what 
is termed a man about town. The influences of Corinth 
seem to have deserted him. I am not questioning his 
integrity. That privilege was denied me long ago. I 
was mistaken about him once, I shall not fall into error 
again. I did him a grievous wrong. Had it not been 
for the arrogant demands of Adam Carr, I should have 
been inclined to restore him to his position in the bank. 
But that was not to be considered. I owe nothing to 
the generosity of Adam Carr. He is my enemy. 

“ Now to come to the point. Mary, who will soon 
be twenty-one, has taken a great fancy to this young 
man. He visits his mother here regularly and, while 
I cannot ask him to come to my home, Mary sees him 
frequently and in a clandestine manner. Your aunt 
and I have remonstrated, but to no avail. She goes 
about with him when the occasion presents itself. She 
rides in his automobile with strange men and women 
from New York, — flashy women who drink and smoke. 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


I am sorry to say that she seems to be estranged from 
her friend and old-time companion, Joan Bright. The 
inference is plain. Joan does not approve of John 
Payson and his friends. We see but little of her in 
these days. A few nights ago Mary came home from 
an all-day trip — on a Sabbath — and your aunt dis- 
tinctly smelt the odour of wine on her breath. 

“ Last week I met Payson in Corinth. Realising 
that it was better for everyone concerned, I politely 
asked him to come to my house to see Mary. We 
would be glad to welcome him there. He calmly in- 
formed me that he would not put foot inside my gates, 
not in a million years, or something to that effect.: 
Whereupon I notified him that he could not continue 
his attentions to my niece unless he were manly enough 
to visit her in the home of her protectors. I will not 
repeat what he said in response to this. Suffice to 
say, he insulted me. He did not hesitate to say that 
he would see Mary when he pleased and as he pleased. 

“ I do not like this young man. He is not all that 
he should be. Judge Bright, once his friend, now says 
that he belongs to a fast set in New York, and has 
been spoiled by prosperity and adulation. I am quite 
sure that he means to marry your sister if she will have ( 
him. He knows that she will come into a fortune soon. 
He is a reckless speculator, I am told. I fear for her 
interests more than I can tell you. 

“You know him. I leave it to you as to whether 
he is altogether the man you would choose to be the 
husband, or even the lover, of your sister. 

“In bringing this matter to your attention, I will 
go a bit beyond the bounds of reticence. Do you know 
his history? Do you know why Adam Carr takes such 
a deep interest in him? Do you know whose son he is? 


HORACE WRITES A LETTER 


24^3 


These are questions that will confront you. I could 
answer all of them, but will not. 

“ I will simply say that he is not to be thought of 
as a husband for Mary, and in saying so to the son 
of Philip Midthorne, who was a gentleman bom, I feel 
that my convictions are not without weight in your 
estimation. 

‘‘As I said before, I rejoice that you are coming 
home. You, and you alone, can influence Mary. She 
must not be permitted to go on in this affair. Do 
not write to her of what I am telling you. Her re- 
sentment might lead her to do the very thing we are 
seeking to prevent by diplomacy and tact. She is 
lovable and she adores you. You can save her, Eric. 

“ J ack Payson will do all that he can to hurt me. He 
has never forgiven me. He would take her, honourably 
or otherwise, merely to have the chance to gloat over 
me. 

‘‘ Your devoted uncle, 

“ Horace Beagden.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


LET THERE BE LIGHT 

When Eric came down the gang plank at the pier in 
New York City, the one familiar face that met his gaze 
belonged to Adam Carr. The square, stubborn figure 
of the detective was at the bottom of the slip, and no 
amount of jostling disturbed it. 

« I’ve got news for you,” was his greeting, as Eric 
extended his hand. 

“ And I have a question or two to put to you, Mr. 
Adam,” said the young man promptly. 

“ I suppose you want to ask me about Jack Payson,” 
observed Adam as they moved off toward the “ M ” 
section. “ I thought you’d be wanting to get at the 
facts. First, let’s hustle your stuff through these fel- 
lows here. I’ve got it fixed so that you won’t be de- 
layed. Little pull.” 

“ Thanks. What is your news ? ” 

“ Your sister is in New York.” 

“In New York.?^ How — what do you mean.? Is 
she here to meet me ? ” 

“ Not exactly that. I think she’s here to avoid meet- 
ing you.” 

Eric turned icy cold. People stared at him as he 
reached blindly for the support of one of the posts. 

“ For God’s sake — ” he began hoarsely, and could 
go no farther. His eyes asked all the questions that 
were necessary. 

“ I’ve got a cab outside. We’ll talk about it as we 
drive up. Be calm. Everything’s all right with her, 


•LET THERE BE LIGHT 


M5 

Pm sure. She’s staying with friends. Old Horace 
didn’t know how to handle her, that’s all. She’s like a 
spirited, thoroughbred horse. He went a step too far 
into her private affairs.” 

“You mean, she’s — she’s left Corinth — left my 
uncle’s house ? ” cried Eric. 

“ She had to. Any girl of spirit would have done 
the same.” 

“ But why did you say she was here to avoid meeting 
me? What is wrong? What has she done? ” 

Destiny! Fore-ordination! The promises of their 
childhood ! All of these rushed across his mind in horrid 
review. His heart was like lead. 

“ Oh, it was wrong to leave her,” he groaned, before 
the other could reply. “ I am to blame if anything has 
happened — ” 

“ People are staring at you, Eric. " Pull yourself to- 
gether. I guess I was too sudden. It’s a fault I have. 
You’ve got a wrong impression, I see. She’s all right. 
Don’t worry. I should have said she wanted to avoid 
meeting you in Corinth. She’s done with Corinth for- 
ever. Here’s the inspector.” 

Half an hour later, they were on their way up town 
in a hansom. A fine drizzle was blowing in their faces 
as they leaned back in the seat, neither of them caring 
to have the glass lowered. 

“ Now I’ll answer your questions about Jack Pay- 
son,” said Adam quietly. 

“ I want to know about Mary. What’s happened? ” 

“ Well, she eloped a week or ten days ago. She’s of 
age now and can do as she pleases.” 

“ In heaven’s name, why did she leave Corinth ? What 
is she doing in New York? Where is she — ” 

“Give me time, my lad. Horace objects to Jack 


^46 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


Payson, that’s the sum and substance of it. He’s never 
got over the fact that he did the boy a wrong. You 
know and he knows that Jack was not guilty of robbing 
the bank, but Horace hates him simply because he didn’t 
do it. Jack’s all right. He has done well in New 
York. Godsend to him to get out of Corinth. He wants 
to marry your sister. Hold on ! Don’t fly off the 
handle now. He may not have as much blue blood in 
him as you have, but he’s got plenty of honest red 
blood, and he’s a man, in spite of Horace. He’s square 
and he’s good enough for any woman, if you can say 
that of any man. He — ” 

“ I don’t know anything about him. Who was his 
father.? Does anyone know.? Do you know?” 

Adam’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and he was 
slow in replying. 

‘‘ Be blunt about it. You want to know if he was 
born — straight. That’s it, isn’t it.? ” 

That’s it.” 

If his mother was straight? ” 

“ Yes. And why you have always been so deeply in- 
teyested in him,” blurted out Eric. 

“ That’s something I cannot answer,” said Adam, 
looking straight ahead. 

“ You mean you won’t,” cried Eric. 

“Haven’t I always been fair with you?” demanded 
the older man. “ Can’t you take my word for it that 
he is all right, without demanding explanations .? ” 

“ No, I’ve got to know.” 

“ Then, my boy, you’ll have to get your information 
from someone else.” 

“ By heaven, Adam Carr, if he tries to marry my 
sister. I’ll kill him!” 

“ I wouldn’t say that, Eric.” 


LET THERE BE LIGHT 


a4T 

“ I mean it. Curse him, I won’t have my sister — ” 

Adam turned on him, with the first touch of coldness 
the young man had ever known him to reveal. 

“ Stop right there. Consider well before you con- 
demn any man, or any man’s mother.” There was a 
clear and unmistakable meaning in his words. Eric 
flushed and then turned deathly pale. 

‘‘ Stop the cab ! ” he said, hoarse with a sudden rage 
toward the speaker. “ Let me out, I say.” 

Adam smiled, a trifle wearily, but with a certain wist- 
ful gentleness that did not fail to appeal to the hot- 
headed young traveller. He took out his handkerchief 
and cleared the moisture from his brow — moisture that 
might not have been left there by the fine, penetrating 
drizzle. 

“ Are you about to forget, Eric, that we are friends? 
he asked quietly. “ Forgive me for what I said just 
now. It was the only way to bring you to time, as 
the saying goes. We’ll never allude to it again. Now, 
if you’ll sit there quietly. I’ll tell you about Mary. 
It’s quite natural that she should admire John Payson. 
He’s an ideal type of American. He’s good looking 
and he does things. They say that of President Roose- 
velt: he does things. They don’t say he’s good look- 
ing, but that’s of no consequence.” He smiled in his 
queer, mirthless way. She turned to Jack when Hor- 
ace turned against him. That was quite natural, too. 
Mrs. Blagden maintains to this day, with a sort of 
secret way of impressing her views without actually ut- 
tering them in so many words, that young Payson was 
really at the bottom of the bank robberies, and that I 
put up the job on her son for reasons of my own. 
What’s more, she believes that Jack knows something 
of Chetwynd’s whereabouts. A mother’s hallucination. 


i^48 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


or something of that sort. Well, when Jack and Mary 
met each other a year or two ago, — I introduced them 
at my daddy’s gate-house — she was a bit cold toward 
him. You see, she had always been a lady, right from 
the day of her birth, and Jack had only been a man 
from the day of his coming into the world. It takes a 
lady a long time to overcome a prejudice against the 
kind of a chap she has been brought up to consider 
nothing but a man. 

“ I believe your friend. Miss Bright, has never quite 
come to that way of looking at things. She doesn’t 
know that it is the man in you that she admires; she 
thinks it is the gentleman. But that’s beside the ques^ 
tion. I must be getting old, I talk so much. 

“ In course of time, Mary came to see something she 
liked in Jack. He is ten years older than she and he’s 
had hard knocks enough to make him seem even older 
than that to her. He — ” 

‘‘You introduced him to her.^” broke in Eric hotly. 
“ You arranged it. I’ll stake my head.” 

“ Well, hardly that,” said Adam easily. “ It just 
happened. Fate, I daresay. She wasn’t long in find- 
ing that he’d made good in New York. Some of his 
friends happen to be actresses. That was enough to 
condemn him in Corinth. They don’t like actresses 
there. They like ’em in the phonograph, but not in the 
flesh. Well, Jack has a lot of fine friends in New York 
who are not actresses, but who admire these stage women 
for what they are — bright, clever, true women who 
fight just as shy of evil as their sisters do in Corinth, but 
without going to prayer-meeting once a week for in- 
structions. 

“ Horace Blagden couldn’t believe his senses. He 


LET THERE BE LIGHT 


249 


stepped in as Mary’s guardian and told her to drop 
Jack and his well-dressed friends. I don’t blame him 
altogether, mind you. He thought he was acting for 
her best interests. I suppose he has written you 
about all this. They tell me he isn’t as narrow as he 
used to be. If he could forget that he is Horace Blag- 
den for a little while, he might be a wiser man. I’ll say 
that for him, even though I despise him. 

‘‘ He figures that Jack is a schemer, that he means 
to marry Mary, and — above all — that he wants to 
get hold of her money. Well, a few weeks ago, as you 
know, she became of age. He wasn’t satisfied with her 
promise to leave her money affairs in his hands, just as 
you have done, but he must regulate everything else 
for her. She wouldn’t sign an agreement, so he took it 
to mean that sooner or later she’d let Jack make other 
investments for her. He put his foot down hard a 
fortnight ago. Said that Jack was the illegitimate son 
of someone and not fit to keep company with her. Mary 
couldn’t stand it. She eloped with Jack.” 

“ Eloped ! ” groaned Eric. ‘‘ Are they — married.? ” 
No,” said Adam complacently. 

‘‘ The infernal scoundrel ! ” raged Eric, beating his 
clenched fists together. And you try to defend him ! 
Oh, my poor little Mary ! My poor — ” 

« It wasn’t that kind of an elopement,” explained 
Adam. “ She asked him to take her to the home of Mrs. 
Kendrick in New York — a mutual friend, and a very 
noble woman. He did it, that’s all. She’s there now, 
and my father has a letter for you at the gate-house, 
explaining everything. You needn’t worry. She won’t 
come to harm — not at the hands of Jack Payson. He 
wants to marry her. That ought to satisfy you. Men 


^50 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


don’t wrong the women they really want to marry. It’s 
not in the game. They wrong the ones they don’t want 
to marry.” 

“ I must see her at once. Where does this Mrs. Ken- 
drick live.'’ Hey, cabby! Pull up a minute. Tell him 
where to go, Mr. Adam.” 

The young man was shivering with the ague of dread 
and excitement. 

“We will go to the Holland House, and then you’ll 
take the evening train for Corinth,” said Adam dic- 
tatorially. Eric’s energetic protests met with a calm 
stolidity on the part of his friend. “ Jack Pay son will 
meet you at my father’s cottage in the morning, after 
you have read Mary’s letter. It is his place to put the 
matter squarely before you, as a man should. We 
talked it over this morning. He says that you may 
demand satisfaction from him, and he’s square enough 
to meet you face to face before you go to Mary with 
reproaches.” 

Nothing would move him. 

Eric, in a fever of impatience, took the evening train 
for Corinth, accompanied by Adam Carr. 

“ If any harm has come to Mary, I’ll kill! Yes, Mr. 
Adam, I’ll kill ! ” he repeated over and over again. 

“ I’m not saying Mary did a wise thing in running 
away like this,” admitted Adam. “ It has caused a lot 
of talk, — you might say scandal. You know the kin(3 
of women there are in Corinth. They’re bound to say 
nasty things. But she would do it. The only decent 
thing Jack Pay son could do was to see her through 
with it. He loves her. He couldn’t do anything else.” 

Eric shut his jaws with a snap. “ She’s got me to 
reckon with,” he grated. “ She’ll come back to Corinth 
or I’ll know the reason why.” 


LET THERE BE LIGHT 


^51 


She’ll come back if you insist, but I wouldn’t insist 
too vigorously, if I were you,” was Adam’s sententious- 
advice. 

The next morning, after having listened for an hour 
or more to the bitter declamations of his uncle and aunt, 
Eric left the breakfast table to redeem his promise to 
Joan. He had promised to call her up on the telephone 
the instant he arrived in Corinth. Other distracting 
events had put this tender obligation out of his thoughts. 
A servant in the Bright home informed him that Miss 
Joan was out of town and would not return until the 
end of the following week. He was annoyed and puz- 
zled by this extraordinary piece of news. Joan, in her 
last letter, had said she would be fairly hanging over 
the ’phone, waiting to hear his dear voice. 

His appointment with John Pay son was for eleven: 
o’clock. Adam Carr had arranged it, apparently with- 
out consulting the New Yorker. 

Eric had been at once struck by the changes in his 
uncle and aunt. They were white of hair, grey of face, 
and more than ordinarily smileless. Signs of deep suf- 
fering lay in their eyes. Heavy lines marked the gaunt, 
ascetic face of his uncle ; his shoulders drooped far more 
than his rigid, upright figure might have suggested. 
He looked a man of seventy-five, instead of sixty-three 
or four. Mrs. Blagden’s hair was perfectly white. A. 
strange, sad sweetness, — the reflection of far-off girl* 
hood gentleness, — had come into her face. Her voice 
was soft, and charged with a curiously vibrant note, 
altogether unfamiliar to Eric, whose strongest recollec- 
tion was of sharp, incisive tones that bore no relation to 
love. 

She moved with a certain listlessness, and yet there was 
ever the underlying suggestion of alertness, of eager- 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


^ 5 ^ 

ness. He observed that she never passed the grim old 
hall clock without glancing at its face; for an instant 
her manner suggested the attitude of one listening, — 
just a flitting impression, — as if she were trying to 
catch a sound not distinguishable to other ears. Her 
sombre black dress bore no touch of colour save the ivory 
cross that hung suspended from her neck at the end of a 
string of heavy jet beads. 

He had told them that he did not hold them responsi- 
ble for the step Mary had taken, and they seemed 
grateful. Something in the manner of these uncompro- 
mising natures gave him to understand that they had 
softened, at least toward him; that the steel edges had 
worn away; that wistful, hungry hearts were being laid 
bare that he might see them plainly and forget not to 
touch them gently. 

“ I shall bring her back. Aunt Rena,” he had said. 

She will be welcome, Eric,” said his aunt, and he 
was surprised by the simple appeal that went with the 
words. “We acted as we thought best. If we were 
wrong, — well, we cannot always be right, try as we 
may.” 

“ They teU me that Joan is away from home,” he 
said, on his return from the telephone. 

His uncle was standing at the window, looking out 
over the wet lawn, a gaunt, frail figure, poignant with 
reserve. 

Horace turned. “ She’s off on a cruise with young 
Sallonsby and his party.” 

“ Sallonsby.? You don’t mean the Sallonsbys of Bos- 
ton?” 

“ Paul Sallonsby. I think you knew him at Cam- 
bridge. He has come into a fortune. His father died 
a year and a half ago, leaving two millions and over 


LET THERE BE LIGHT 


253 


to each of his children. Paul has been seeing a great 
deal of Joan, I hear. He has taken a party to the West 
Indies.” 

‘‘ They left last week,” added Mrs. Blagden. “ His 
yacht was in the harbour here for two days.” 

Eric was dazed. He could hardly believe his ears. 
J oan had not mentioned young Sallonsby in any of her 
letters, nor had she spoken of a contemplated cruise. 
It was more than strange that she should go away at 
the very time he was expected home. A duU pain as- 
sailed him. What did it mean.? Was it possible — but 
no! She could not be anything but constant. He 
could swea^r by the pure light in her eyes. And yet, she 
had gone away. 

Vaguely dismayed — in addition to the depression 
that was already upon him, — he wandered up and down 
the hall, through the dim parlour and sitting-room, 
tom by many emotions. The prim rooms, so unlike 
those to which he had become accustomed in Paris and 
elsewhere, seemed to be narrower, more confined than 
before he went away. They appeared to shrink in size, 
even as he stood in them, the walls drawing closer about 
him, the ceiling coming down as if driven by a great, 
slow-moving press. An atmosphere of oppressiveness 
surrounded him. All the brightness seemed to have 
been swept out of life. Something dead pervaded the 
house, from top to bottom. 

The same damask sofas and chairs stood in their ac- 
customed places in the parlour. The brussels carpet, 
with the big, well-remembered pattern, lay beneath his 
feet, as new as the day it was first put down, twenty- 
five years ago. The old portraits and oil paintings still 
hung suspended by silken picture cords, relics of an ob- 
solete grandeur. Over by the window which looked out 


254j 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


upon the front yard and the street at the bottom of the 
knoll, stood a chair that somehow was out of place in his 
memory. It was drawn up close to the side of the win- 
dow, and faced the light though screened from outer 
view by the heavy, immaculate lace curtains that always 
had been there. 

Immaculate.? He crossed over, struck by an unusual 
aspect. One of the curtains hung straight and prim, 
but the other, next to the chair, was slightly crumpled, 
even soiled along the inner edge. 

A careful hand had been drawing it aside for years! 
Every day someone had sat in that chair, peering be- 
tween the curtains — looking for someone who never 
came. 

The well-remembered scent of a perfume affected by 
his aunt in deference to her distant New York incarna- 
tion, came faintly to his nostrils as he leaned over the 
chair. How many times had she drawn that curtain 
aside to look down into the winding, tree-lined street ? 

He turned away with a shudder, and left the room, 
hurrying out upon the drenched lawn, where the leaves 
of the preceding autumn still lay dank and brown be- 
neath stark and leafless trees to which the breath of 
spring had not yet come. He stopped at the lower gate 
to look back at the grey house he had left. 

How small and insignificant it was, and how desolate ! 
The Giant’s Castle! He had a sudden feeling of pity 
for it. It represented all that was big in Corinth, 
and yet how it had shrunk since he had last looked 
upon it. 

And it was still called the Giant’s Castle by imag- 
inative small folk, and it was a dreadful place where 
ogres lived! 

I don’t wonder that Mary left it,” he said, half 


LET THERE BE LIGHT 


255 


aloud, the bleakness of the view wringing the confes- 
sion from his soul. 

He was half an hour ahead of time at Jabez Carr’s 
cottage. The old man, as dry and shrivelled as a but- 
ternut “hull,” greeted him with great joy and a new 
garrulousness that proclaimed his eighty odd years in a 
way pitifully plain. The old man was not long in get- 
ting to the subject that pleased him best to discuss: the 
great religious upheaval in Corinth’s First Congrega- 
tional Church. He had views on the subject, and he 
vented them with many a joyous cackle. Jabez had not 
been inside the doors of a church in sixty years, and he 
had no settled ideas as to religion aside from a vague 
recognition of the Holy Trinity, yet to have heard him 
on this wet March morning as he sat close upon the little 
stove in his cottage you might have thought that the 
burden of all Christianity rested upon his shoulders. 

Eric sat by the tiny window, watching the lane. At 
last he started up and his eyes narrowed. Adam Carr, 
had he been present, would have noted the sudden 
clenching of his hands and the squaring of the jaw. 

John Payson was coming through the gate, a strongs 
well-put-up figure of a man, trimly dressed and brisk. 

Ignoring Jabez, who was in the midst of an eloquent 
appeal to God to witness his absolute lack of prejudice 
in the Blagden-Presbrey controversy, Midthome flung, 
open the door and strode out into the open. He wanted 
to meet his man where it was wide and free. 

Payson came on, his eyes expressing recognition, but 
not the faintest sign of confidence. 

Eric stopped short and was staring hard at the face 
of the new-comer, fascinated by what he saw there. For 
weeks he had been trying to recall something he had 
overlooked in John Payson’s features. Now the thing 


256 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


he had always missed recognising forced itself upon him 
with such a positive clearness that he was shocked be- 
yond expression. 

The clean-cut, aggressive face of the young man was 
singularly like that of Adam Carr, with the distinction 
that it was not so coarsely moulded, and far from sinis- 
ter. The grey eyes were set far back in the head and the 
cheek bones were high and broad, as in the case of Adam 
Carr. The lower part of the face was not so broad nor 
so resolute, but still there was a singular resemblance to 
the jaw and the chin of the detective. Payson’s counte- 
nance was frank and open, full of power and virility, 
while Adam’s was heavy, expressionless, almost sphinx- 
like in its immobility. The resemblance, startling as it 
was, ended with the face. The younger man was tall, 
supple, graceful ; Adam was stocky, Samsonian. 

Eric had not seen the ex-teller in five or six years, but 
he was able, in this instant, to call up vague, haunting 
impressions that had always puzzled him when he met 
him face to face. He had never known him well. Pay- 
son was older than he by half a dozen years. 

Observing the peculiar look in Midthorne’s eyes. Pay- 
son stopped when some six or eight paces away. His 
own narrowed slightly. 

“ Am I an ob j ect of curiosity to you, Mr. Mid- 
thome?” he asked quietly. Eric started. The tone, 
the absence of infiection, the very manner of putting the 
question was so familiar to him that he experienced the 
actual sensation of awe. 

“ Yes,” he replied levelly ; “ an object of great curi- 
osity.” 

“ Perhaps animosity.” 

“ Yes, distinctly so.” 

Payson came forward. ‘‘ I am sorry for that, Eric. 


LET THERE BE LIGHT 257 

I hope to overcome that feeling. May I ask : why this 
aversion ? ” 

Eric surveyed him coldly. “ I don’t believe it is nec- 
essary for me to answer that question.” 

“ Permit me to disagree with you. If I have done 
anything to deserve your harsh opinion of me, I desire 
to know what it is and where I stand before taking up 
the question that means so much to both of us.” 

“We can settle that, Mr. Payson, without exchang- 
ing confidences,” said Eric, white to the lips. “ You 
have acted like an infernal scoundrel in enticing my — 

“ Pardon me,” interrupted the other. “ I did not 
come to insult you nor to be insulted by you. Scoundrel 
is a hard word. I will not ask you to recall it now, but 
I’ll expect you to do it some day. You — ” 

“ Has Adam Carr told you what I intend to do to 
you if you do not keep away from my sister.?” de- 
manded Eric hotly, ignoring the taunt. 

“ He has. You intend to kill me, I believe. I think 
I have some right to inquire why you take that attitude 
toward a man who has every honourable intention in the 
world — ” 

“ Honourable ! Do you call it honourable to entice a 
young girl away from the home of her natural protec- 
tors, to throw her among fast women and men, to offer 
her wines, and to — to compromise her.? ” 

“ I have done none of these things, Mr. Midthome, 
as you will discover when you have taken the trouble to 
go beyond the accounts given by the natural pro- 
tectors you mention. This interview promises to be 
painful. We will cut it short. My object in coming 
here is to inform you that Mary has promised to be 
my wife.” 

“ What ! Why, you miserable — ” 


5^58 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


“ One moment, please. She is quite as dear to me as 
she is to you. I did not ask her to leave her home. She 
went of her own free will. You say that I have placed 
her among fast women and men. If you choose to 
judge my friends by the standards of Corinth, they are 
fast. I think, however, you may have seen enough of 
the world to know that a snail would be swift in Corinth. 
My friends are now her friends. They will be yours, 
too, I hope, Mr. Midthome, and you will have reason 
to be proud of them — just as I am. If she has ever 
tasted wine in her life, I am not aware of the fact. If 
her association with me has compromised her, I am un- 
able to define what you may be pleased to call ‘ hon- 
ourable intentions.’ I owe you certain explanations, 
that is all. But, by the Lord Harry, sir, I owe you no 
apologies, either for myself or Mary. My record is 
clean, my conscience clear. There is no more for me 
to say. I persuaded your sister to grant me the privi- 
lege of seeing you first, Mr. Midthome. Mr. Carr has 
already assured me of your antipathy. You came here 
to meet me. I thank you. My duty was plain. Your 
first reproaches should fall on me, not on her. I did not 
expect, however, to be called an infernal scoundrel. It 
is rather unusual, isn’t it ? ” 

Eric had been staring at him intently through this 
long, level speech. It was being borne in upon him, 
<much against his will, that Payson was doing the hon- 
ourable thing, and that he had put himself in a most un- 
enviable position by forgetting his own dignity. 

“ I spoke in heat,” he said, but somewhat doggedly. 
I can only think of Mary as a — well, as a child, 
^he knows nothing of men.” 

“ Nor do you, I fear,” said Payson coolly. 

What do you mean ? ” 


LET THERE BE LIGHT ^59 

“ A man isn’t likely to stand being called a scoundrel 
:with impunity.” 

“ Is that a threat ? ” 

‘‘ I leave it to you. Suppose I were to call you an 
infernal scoundrel, out of a clear sky, so to speak. 
Would you accept it amiably.? ” 

Eric stiffened. The blood of his father responded 
nobly. 

“ I am prepared, sir, to give you satisfaction.” 

For the first time Pay son smiled. ‘‘ Mary said that 
you would most likely challenge me.” 

Eric flushed. ‘‘ I give you to understand, sir, that 
this is not child’s play. You cannot treat it as a joke. 
It is ^ — ” 

“But I graciously promised her that I would over^ 
look all the affronts of this first interview. I knew just 
how you would be feeling,” said Pay son good humour- 
edly. 

Midthorne turned away, biting his lips to hold back 
the rush of angry words. 

“ You wiU have to admit, Eric, that I have done the 
decent — ” 

“ Don’t call me Eric ! And don’t use the word ‘ de- 
cent,’ ” snapped Eric. “ It’s so damned middle-class. 
It shows where you belong.” 

Payson’s cheek burned. “ That, at least, was un- 
called for, Mr. Midthorne. I am a plain man, and a 
decent one, even though it jars on you. But we are 
wasting words. I came to ask for your sister’s hand. 
Am I to understand that you mean to oppose me .? ” 

“ Most assuredly. I forbid her to even think of it.” 

Payson smiled. “I’m afraid you can’t control her 
thoughts. She has outgrown you, Mr. Midthorne. You 
eeem to forget that she is a woman. I have no sister^ 


'260 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


but I believe I can in a measure appreciate the shock 
you have experienced in suddenly learning that your 
sister is no longer a child in pinafores, but a grown 
woman, with a woman’s heart and body and a woman’s 
capacity to love a man because he is a man. She adores 
you, she will be guided by what you advise, but — ” 
He stopped and shook his head slowly. 

‘‘ She will drop you like a hot poker, Payson, when 
I’ve told her a few things I know,” said Eric, feeling 
that he was getting very much the worst of it and grow- 
ing vindictive in consequence. 

‘‘Would you mind telling these things to me?” de- 
manded Payson, a hard glitter in his eyes. 

“ They’re between Mary and me, that’s all I’ve got to 
say.” 

“ Do you think you are meeting me fairly ? ” 

It doesn’t in the least matter.” 

“ Very well. The interview is at an end. I may as 
well tell you, however, that I intend to marry your sis- 
ter.” 

“ We’ll see about that,” grated Eric. 

Payson bowed very stiffly and turned to walk away. 
After taking a few steps, he whirled impulsively, a plead- 
ing look in his eyes. His voice rang with an honest ap- 
peal to the other’s fairness. 

“ See here, Eric, can’t we be friends? What have I 
done that you should treat me in this manner? I don’t 
' want to go back to Mary with the sting of her brother’s 
haired hurting me, knowing that I’ve got to go on lov- 
ing her while — ” 

“ In the first place,” interrupted Eric, “ you want to 
get your hands on her little fortune. You — ” 

“ Stop right there ! I wish to serve notice on you and 
your Uncle Horace that when I become Mary’s husband 


LET THERE BE LIGHT 


261 


it will devolve upon me to look after all of her affairs. 
If you think I’m the sort of man who will consent to the 
espionage of a,- — well, I won’t say it. He’s your 
uncle. But take this from me: I’ll handle Mary’s 
property.” 

“ And sink every dollar of it in some wild-cat specula- 
tion of yours. I know the kind,” sneered Eric. 

“ I am not a speculator,” said Payson quietly. 

‘‘ We’ll pass that point. I’m going to put a very 
blunt question to you. Who was your father ” 

Pay son’s face went very white. A full minute passed 
before his lips parted in reply to this unexpected ques- 
tion. 

‘‘ My father was not a blue-stocking, Mr. Midthome, 
if that’s what you’re trying to get at. Am I to under- 
stand that you object to me because I happen to have 
been born to a somewhat less exalted state than your 
own ? ” 

“ No. Not just that,” said Eric meaningly. “ Who 
is your father? ” 

The one small word was like a blow in the face. “ Is,’’ 
he said, — not was.” 

‘‘ Why, — why, what do you mean ? ” stammered Pay- 
son, the blood rushing to his cheeks. “ My father is / 
dead. I can’t even remember him. You — you think 
he is alive? That he is — Good Lord, you don’t sus- 
pect that he is a criminal, a fugitive, or something of 
that sort ! ” 

“ He died before you can remember? ” cried Eric, his 
eyes gleaming. 

“ Yes. He was a sailing-master. He took a boat 
out of this port for years. One night he was lost in a 
gale. His body never came ashore. He’s lying out 
there in the Atlantic somewhere, with all the others who 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


are buried in that vast grave. For you know, Mr.. 
Midthorne, that the Atlantic is a graveyard.” 

Eric was suddenly conscious of a disconcerting direct- 
ness in the other man’s words. It seemed to him that 
there was a significant, even mocking gleam in the grey- 
ish eyes. 

A chill crept swiftly into his blood. He felt the icy 
moisture starting from every pore in his body. Was it 
possible that Payson knew.? Was he so close to Adam 
Carr that the great secret had been given into his keep- 
ing, — and for what sinister purpose.? To be used as a 
threat, as a club .? 

With an almost visible effort, he regained control of 
his wavering fortitude. There was the chance, he ar- 
gued inwardly, that Payson’s remark had no sinister 
meaning. He would not be so easily caught. 

“ Are you quite sure your father is lying at the bot- 
tom of the Atlantic.? ” he asked, after the briefest hesi- 
tation. 

Payson scowled. See here, Midthorne, I don’t like 
your manner. What are you driving at.? My father. 
Captain Henry Payson, went down with his schooner, 
the Lanigan. Three of the crew were picked up alive. 
Two of them are inmates to-day of the Seaman’s Home. 
There is no mistake. He was an honest man, and a God- 
fearing one. He was not a gentleman, according to 
; your lights, I daresay, but he must have been a good 
man, for my mother has prayed that I might grow up to 
be like him.” He came a step nearer. What have 
you heard.? Has anyone told you that he did not go 
down with the Lanigan? Has anyone dared to say that 
he took that way of deserting my mother and me .? ” 

“ How old were you when the ship went down .? ” de- 
manded Eric, ignoring the questions. 


LET THERE BE LIGHT 


26 S 


^ What has that to do with it? ” 

‘‘ Will you answer the question or not? ” 

Certainly. I was not more than six months old, 
they tell me. My mother has told me the story a hun- 
dred times over — all about the black night and the sav- 
age storm in the April of that year. Adam Carr has 
told me of my father. He was his closest friend. He 
always stayed at our house when he was in Corinth be- 
tween voyages. I’ve known him always. He can tell 
you that my father was an honest man and that he did 
go down with the Lanigan, I am not ashamed of my 
father. By heaven, I hope I am like him. He was a 
man! ” 

There could be no doubt as to his sincerity. If there 
was a mystery in connexion with his origin, he was totally 
ignorant of the fact. It was plain to Eric that the 
secret mumblings of gossiping townspeople had never 
reached his ears; it was equally plain that Payson had 
never noted the resemblance of himself to Adam Carr. 

In spite of himself, Eric felt a sudden, sharp pity for 
this tall, good-looking chap. 

“ I have the right to inquire, you’ll admit that. Pay- 
son,” he said, less arbitrarily. 

“ Perhaps you’re right,” satd the other, biting his lip 
as he stared at the ground through narrowed lids. 

Mary, God bless her, would have taken me as I am, 
without a single question. It’s just as well that there is 
someone to ask questions for her. Good morning, Mr. 
Midthorne.” 

Eric watched him until his strong, erect figure disap- 
peared at a bend in the lane. Vaguely conscious that he 
had not come off with flying colours in this fruitless in- 
terview, he jammed his hands into his pockets and, with 
lowered chin, turned to re-enter the cottage. 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


There was a new kind of terror tugging at his heart. 
To what end was Adam Carr carrying his mysterious 
game ? 

A raucous, indistinct but startlingly familiar laugh 
came to his ears. He stopped in his tracks as if turned 
to stone. For years he had been waiting for a repeti- 
tion of that never-to-be-forgotten sound. Somehow he 
knew it would come again. He knew that it would avail 
him not to look for visible signs of him who laughed. 
The sound was of the air itself ; it enveloped him ; he 
could reach out his hand and touch the laugh itself ! He 
was breathing that ghastly sound, he was inhaling it ! 

His knees shook. He could feel the hair on his head 
rise, as if responding to the freezing current that raced 
through him. His glaring eyes searched among the 
leafless branches of the trees. 

Again came the low laugh, this time apparently from 
the interior of the cottage. With a cry, he sprang to 
the door and threw it open, stopping on the threshold to 
peer into the dim interior of the old man’s home. 

In a rocking chair, back in the darkest corner of the 
room, sat a long, shadowy figure. A groan broke in the 
young man’s dry throat. It was a familiar figure. He 
had seen it in his dreams. 

As he fell back against the door- jamb, the figure 
arose from the chair. It seemed to shrink in size as he 
glared at it. It moved toward him. 

“ Good morning, Eric,” said Adam Carr, emerging 
into the light that came through the open doorway. 

“Good God!” broke from Eric’s stiffened lips. He 
staggered to a chair and dropped heavily into it. 

“Have you seen a ghost?” asked Adam, stopping 
short to stare at his young friend. 


LET THERE BE LIGHT ^65 

“When — when did you come in here?” demanded 
Eric hoarsely, 

“ I spent the night here. I overslept,” said the other^ 
his short, heavy frame stretching as if arousing itself 
from the lethargy of sleep. “ Father’s out in the 
kitchen making a pot of coffee for me.” 

“ What were you laughing at a moment ago ? ” asked 
Eric, passing his hand across his moist forehead. 

“Oh,” said Adam Carr, “you heard me, did you? 
I was laughing at Jack. You’ve no idea how stiff and 
ramroddy he looked stalking down the lane.. You must 
have said something that hurtj’ 


CHAPTER XV, 


THE PRODIGAL SISTER RETURNS 

, IEric journeyed to New York by the six o’clock express 
that evening, in a fever of anxiety not unmixed with 
despair. He had had a long afternoon in which to 
think over the situation. The fear had taken posses- 
sion of him that Mary would not be as tractable as he 
had fondly hoped. He found himself, unwillingly, it 
is true, considering the manly charm, the attractive mas- 
culinity of John Payson. It was not difficult, now that 
he was able to picture Mary as something more than 
the slim, brown-eyed girl he had condemned, in his 
brotherly ignorance, to a state of eternal immaturity, — 
it was not difficult, I repeat, for him to understand how 
she might have fallen in love with the fellow. It was 
hard to believe, of course, that she was a woman and a 
woman with a mind of her own. She had always been 
a little girl to him. Somehow he had felt that she al- 
ways would be. There was a distinct shock at the awak- 
ening. Why, she was twenty-one ! His little sister 
was twenty-one! 

Joan Bright was nearing twenty-three, and he had 
; thought of her as a woman for five years or more. She 
' had been his sweetheart — his real sweetheart for ages, 
it seemed to him. She had known what it was to love 
and be loved since the days when her frocks came down 
to her shoe-tops. And she had known, instinctively, 
from the first, how to meet his love, his passion half- 
way. It was the woman in her, just as it had been the 
man in him. Then, why not Mary.? 

266 


THE PRODIGAL SISTER RETURNS 26T 


But Jack Payson! Why had Fate led him across his 
sister’s path? Why should he have been the one? 

Out of all this, however, grew the sober reflection that 
he had not discredited Payson until his uncle’s letter ap- 
^ prised him of the fact that he was interested in Mary. 
In fact, he had looked upon the ex-teller as a much 
* abused hero in whose footsteps it were a credit and an 
honour to tread. Secretly, with aU Corinth, in those 
other days, he had rejoiced in the vindication of Jack 
Payson. 

But that was before his uncle’s vague indictment had 
been sustained by personal observation. With his own 
eyes he had discovered the bar-sinister. The man was 
marked. He could not change his spots. There was 
no question in Eric’s mind as to the real truth. He had 
been bom in sin and Adam Carr was father to him. 

No small amount of bitterness was added to his cup 
before he left Corinth. His uncle, with more cruelty 
than he intended, had compared Eric in his present posi- 
tion to himself under similar conditions many years be- 
fore. 

“ It is working around in a circle, Eric,” he said, 
while they were discussing the best means of inducing 
Mary to return to the house on the hill. “ You stand 
just where I did twenty -six years ago. The situation 
is identical. Then it was I who suffered the loss of a 
sister, now it is you. Mary will have her way, just as 
her mother did before her. She will not be turned back. 
If I failed in my day, what chance have you in yours? 
Ah, my boy, we are Blagdens, you and I. Time is prov- 
ing us to be alike in every respect, even to our heart- 
aches and disappointments.” 

On the other hand, Adam Carr, down in the gate- 
keeper’s cottage, had grimly said, in reply to the young 


268 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


man’s bitter lament: “You can’t regulate the heart- 
beats of a young woman, Eric. They either beat for 
you or against you, and they’ll beat in spite of you. 
That’s why men sometimes have such a hard time get- 
ting rid of women they’re tired of. Can you honestly 
blame your sister for falling in love with Jack? Now, 
take your Aunt Rena’s case. She had brothers, a cou- 
ple of ’em. Fine chaps and good sportsmen. What do 
you suppose they said when they heard she was going 
to marry a narrow-minded Miss Nancy like Horace 
Blagden? Why, they simply roared like a couple of 
wounded lions. But did it do them any good? No, 
sir. She had set her heart on marrying him, and that 
settled it. I’ve often wondered what kind of a woman 
she might have been if she’d married one of those scamps 
of New Yorkers your uncle holds so cheaply. She 
might have been hob-nobbing with the Astors and Van- 
derbilts at this very minute. But she was bound to have 
Horace. No, my boy, there’s no accounting for taste 
when a woman’s heart is concerned, especially if it’s 
set.” 

Pay son went to New York on the train with Eric, 
but they saw nothing of each other after a single, un- 
friendly glance at the Corinth depot. 

The next morning Eric presented himself at Mrs. 
Kendrick’s. He knew the lady by reputation, as one 
knows of people whose names are to be seen in the so- 
ciety columns of the great newspapers and periodicals. 
He could not help wondering how Jack Payson, a sail- 
ing-master’s son, came to know the rather exclusive Mrs. 
Kendrick. 

Mary’s first words, after their mutual embraces and 
her own hysteric sniffles of joy, were these: 


THE PRODIGAL SISTER RETURNS 269 

“ Now, Eric, you are not to scold me. I can’t bear 
it.” 

Whereupon she proceeded to cry very heartily, to his 
sad undoing. 

To his intense amazement — you might say concern 
— he discovered her to be a fully developed woman, 
modish to the tips of her toes, and very far removed 
from the shy, dependent little sister he had known all his 
life. She was convincingly attractive. He had never 
thought of her as anything but familiarly pretty. 
Somehow the very feel of her was different. Instead 
of the soft, pliant, almost limp feel of an unformed 
body, there was the firm, tense resistance of a mature 
woman. The wistful, inquisitive gleam was gone from 
her eyes ; the tender mobility of her lips, the girlish up- 
lift of the chin, the breeze-tom look of the dark hair — > 
all these were gone, for she was a woman, — his little 
Mary was a woman. She seemed to have turned into 
one while his back was turned. And stranger still, 
though immensely gratifying to him, she was like the 
women he had seen abroad or in New York, the kind he 
admired: she was smartly gowned, trimly made, with a 
manner, — a real manner. There was nothing about 
her to even faintly suggest Corinth. 

While he stood off, unbelieving, to admire her, his 
mind took a sharp leap through space to the deck of a 
yacht that cruised the Southern seas. Was Joan, too, 
like this? Had she out-grown his vision so completely? 
If the transformation in Joan was as pronounced — 
But, ah ! She was off in the Southern seas. That was 
something else to think about. 

The upshot of his visit was that Mary went to Corinth 
with him that very afternoon. At the end of the long and 


£70 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


trying scene, she consented to return with him on con- 
dition that she was not to go back to the home 'of her 
uncle. She would never agree to that. He would have 
to take the Verner Cottage, which was for rent. She 
would keep house for him. They were of age, she ar- 
gued stubbornly, and independent. They could afford 
to have a place of their own and — live as they wanted to 
live, not as Uncle Horace ordained. No amount of per- 
suasion on his part could alter the decision. After all, 
it was not hard for him to appreciate her point of 
view. He rather favoured the plan himself. The 
house on the hill was a dismal place in itself, to say 
nothing of the conditions which were bound to make it 
even more unpleasant for both of them. 

His chief reason for wanting her to go back to the 
Blagdens was the effect that such an act would have 
on the townspeople. It would re-establish her at once, 
if such a thing were necessary. He had no means of 
knowing how much of the truth Corinth possessed, or 
how little of it. There was the forlorn hope, of course, 
that no questions had been asked, and that her visit to 
Mrs. Kendrick had been accepted as a perfectly natural 
arrangement. Still, if there was speculation or rumour 
he was eager to have it nipped in the bud. 

But she objected to even a temporary truce. She 
would not put her foot inside the Blagden doors. 
Moreover, she would not go back to Corinth without 
consulting John Pay son’s wishes in the matter. This 
was a sore blow to Eric. 

Payson, when she called him up at his office over the 
telephone, at once advised her to accompany her brother, 
and to be guided by him in every particular. Mrs. 
Kendrick, who impressed Eric as a most admirable 
iwoman, explained her own position to his complete satis- 


THE PRODIGAL SISTER RETURNS 271 

faction, and urged the girl to do the obviously sensible 
thing. 

On the way to the station in the cab Mary said to 
Eric, almost defiantly: . This doesn’t mean, Errie, that 
I am giving up Jack. You understand that, don’t 
you.f^ ” 

He looked straight ahead, his jaw stiffening. 
“ There’s time enough for all that, Mary.” 

Her delicate face seemed to take on a certain hard- 
ness. I suppose Uncle Horace told you I’d go to the 
devil, just as mother did, and that’s what you’re afraid 
of. Oh, don’t look so horrified, Errie.l It’s just be- 
tween you and me. He didn’t hesitate to say it to me, 
only he said dogs instead of devil. You wouldn’t have 
^ endured it, either. We’re not helpless children any 
longer.” 

‘‘ Mary, we must never talk about — about what hap- 
pened when we were babies. I don’t know how much of 
the story is true, but — well, let’s drop the subj ect.” 

‘‘ But are you afraid I’ll do just what old Presbrey 
and the rest of them prophesied I’d do ? ” she per- 
sisted. 

“No, I’m not, dear. You are as good as gold,” he 
cried eagerly. 

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “ If 
you’ll trust me, Errie, I’ll trust you,” she said enig- 
matically. She put her hand in his and said no more. 

They had lived in the Verner cottage for more than a 
week before Eric began to observe the peculiar interest 
people were taking in their little home. Women, in 
passing, were prone to direct furtive glances toward 
their doorway and windows, glances that more often 
than not became rather penetrating. Aside from the 


272 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


natural interest people would be expected to take in the 
doings of Horace Blagden’s wards, there were unmis- 
takable evidences of sharp curiosity. It finally dawned 
on him that passers-by were not interested in the Mid- 
thomes jointly, but in Mary alone. Women stared at 
the curtained windows, and then, before reaching the ob- 
structing hedge, invariably turned to speak to each 
other in a way that left no room for speculation as to 
the significance of their comments. 

The town was beginning to discuss Mary. That was 
the sum and substance of it. 

In great distress, Eric went to his uncle. Neither of 
the Blagdens had been near the little home in Grove 
Street. Their aloofness alone was sufficient to create 
comment, and comment in a place like Corinth is usually 
of an unfavourable character. 

Horace listened to the young man’s bitter arraignment 
of fate and took counsel with him. 

“ Bring Mary to church next Sunday morning,” he 
said in conclusion. “ Sit in your old places in our pew. 
Your aunt and I will be there as usual. If Mary cares 
to have us do so, we will stop for you on the way over. 
If it is pleasant we shall walk. I suggest, however, that 
you consult Mary before undertaking to carry out this 
plan, Eric. The situation might easily become awk^ 
ward for all of us.” 

‘‘ Thank you. Uncle Horace,” said Eric, greatly re-* 
lieved. “ I’ll take it up with Mary.” 

Horace cleared his throat. “ I’m sorry she refuses 
to come to our home. It should be her home and yours. 
But if she won’t, she won’t. Your aunt and I have 
talked the matter over. If you’d like us to do so, we 
will drop in occasionally to see you at the cottage. 
Perhaps, it would be rather helpful if we were to do so.” 


THE PRODIGAL SISTER RETURNS 273 


“ It’s just the thing,” cried Eric. “ It’s good of 
you to excuse Mary’s attitude, Uncle Horace. She’ll 
come to her senses in a little while, I’m sure. You will 
be most heartily welcome at — ” 

Horace pursed his lips as he shook his head slowly. 
“ You’d better ask Mary first, my boy. Then let me 
know if we will be welcome.” 

Mary was surprisingly docile about it. She was no 
fool. She sensed the thing that was in the air. 

“ All right, Errie. I’ll do what you think best. 
Mrs. Paulding cut me to-day in the street. That shows 
how the wind blows. You poor boy! I am sorry on 
your account.” 

“ I can’t bear the thought of — ” he began, but in- 
stantly checked the words. He came near to saying 
something that would have hurt her. 

She waited for a moment, her lips parted as if pre- 
pared to cry out against the expected pain. Then they 
trembled with the wayward little smile that was her 
greatest charm. 

‘‘ Good old Errie ! You came near to saying 
something horrid, didn’t you ? ” She put her hands 
on his shoulders, facing him. ‘‘ Isn’t this ever so 
much nicer, living here as we do.?^ You know it is. I 
think — ” 

“ It’s great, Mary,” he cried warmly. 

“ Let them gossip,” she said cheerfully, although 
there was a darker glow in her eyes. ‘‘ It won’t make 
any difference after I’m married and out of reach of 
them. It’s just because I’m not married that they’re 
talking, and looking at my back after I’ve passed, and 
all that sort of thing. But — ” 

He clasped her hands in his and bent over her fiercely. 

You can’t marry Jack Payson, Mary,” he cried. “ I 


^ 274 * 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


can’t permit it. There is a reason, a compelling reason.. 
Why — why, I’d kill him before I’d see — ” 

“ Now, Errie! ” she cried, snatching her hands away. 
“ Don’t say anything you’ll regret. I won’t listen to* 
you.” 

« Why, he’s- — he’s a — No, I won’t say it!” he 
groaned. 

“ A thief I’ll say it for you. He isn’t one, and 
you know it, but even if he were, what cause have we 
for boasting ” 

Good heaven, Mary 1 ” 

“ Well, let’s change the subject,” she said sharply. 

You’d better hurry on or you’ll miss your appoint- 
ment with Judge Bright. Have you sent the plans to 
him ? ” 

He took two or three turns up and down the room, 
pulling himself together. 

“ No,” he said, breathing deeply. ‘‘ The under- 
standing was that I was to show them to Joan first of all. 
She’s not here. See here, Mary, how do things stand 
with you and Joan.?” 

“ I don’t know, Errie. I wish I did. We had a tiff 
a couple of months ago. She said something horrid 
about John Payson and I replied in a way she did not 
like. I said he was a good deal more of a man than 
that Sallonsby chap and that he’d still be a man when her 
fine gentleman was pegging around with locomotor 
ataxia or something — Why, Errie 1 What is the mat- 
ter.? ” 

He was staring at her, dismay in his face. 

“Paul Sallonsby.? You mean she’s — ” 

“ She’s mad about him. They — ” The words died 
on her lips. He had turned very white. The truth 
was revealed to her. Impulsively she flew to his side.. 


THE PRODIGAL SISTER RETURNS 275 


‘‘ Oh, Errie ! I didn’t know it was like that. You care 
for her — in that way ? Oh, Errie ! I’m so sorry I I 
— I thought it was only a boy and girl affair.” 

He held her, sobbing, in his arms. His bloodless lips 
were working, but not in the effort to speak. . 
Something had been shattered. 

A little later he left the house and made his way 
across to Judge Bright’s home. All zest in the building 
project was gone. He had no heart in the long-cher- 
ished enterprise. It was now a cold, duU business trans- 
action, not a labour of love. 

He could not believe it of Joan. Allowing for the 
distance that separated them, there had been ample time 
for a letter to have reached him from the West Indies. 
The fact that she had left no word for him in Corinth, 
not so much as a line, was even more convincing to his 
unwilling mind. She had found someone else to take 
his place. The fond dream was over. He was awake 
after the long, sweet sleep of security, — awake to find 
that while he slept she had slipped away from him 
never to return. And yet he could not believe it of 
her. 

His fears were somewhat lessened by the warmth of 
Judge Bright’s greeting. The fine old Justice was 
frankly glad to see him. There could be no doubt as 
to the genuineness of his affection, nor was his enthusi- 
asm over the prospects of his young friend a whit di- 
minished by the years that had fallen upon both of 
them. 

“ I wish Joan could see you at this moment, Eric,” he 
said, as he wrung the tall, handsome fellow’s hand. 
‘‘ She has often wondered what the two years would do 
for you. Upon my soul, you are the living image of 
your father when he was twenty-five, — and he was a 


^76 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


man one looked at twice, let me say to you. It does my 
heart good to see you, my boy. And it would do yours 
good to see my Joan.” His eyes glowed with joy and 
pride. “ Ah, my boy, she is wonderful.” 

Eric flushed. “ I am sorry she is not at home. Judge 
Bright. I — I had looked forward to seeing her, you 
may be sure.” 

The Justice poked him with his thumb. “ I believe 
there was a boy and girl attachment, wasn’t there.? ” 

“ I am afraid it was no more than that,” said Eric 
soberly. 

Judge Bright gave him a keen glance. ‘‘ I’ll not tell 
her that you put it in just those words,” he said, and 
Eric wondered not a little. 

Later on, they fell to discussing the plans for the 
new house. Some of Eric’s enthusiasm returned. 

“ Of course, we can’t do anything until she returns 
from this pleasure cruise,” said the Judge. “ She’d 
never forgive me if I took a step without consulting 
her. You’ve no idea how completely she has me under 
her thumb.” 

“ When do you expect her to return ? ” asked Eric. 

“ It’s hard to say. They were to start north this 
week, coming direct to Boston, but it seems that new 
plans have been made. I had word yesterday that they 
are going to Vera Cruz and New Orleans and a number 
of places along the gulf, despite the approach of hot 
weather in those parts. It now appears that the yacht 
won’t start homeward short of four or five weeks. We’ll 
have to sit back and wait for her, Eric, that’s all.” 

Eric departed without having exposed his true feel- 
ings to the father of the girl he loved. His pride was 
beginning to assert itself. A dull red seemed to have 
come into his cheek to stay. 


THE PRODIGAL SISTER RETURNS 277 


“ Will you be so kind as to let me know when Joan 
returns, Judge Bright? ” 

I fancy you’ll know it quite as soon as I do,” said 
the girl’s father, with a smile. 

“ That’s not likely, sir,” said Eric calmly. 

He walked rapidly in the direction of the public 
square. Not that business called him there, but because 
he wanted to be where humanity was thickest in 
Corinth. He wanted to imagine himself in Paris ! The 
ludicrousness of the thing did not occur to him. He 
only knew that he hungered for something gay, and 
bright, and whirling. The public square in Corinth 
was the nearest approach to all that. 

At the corner of the square he stopped suddenly and 
looked about him as if aroused from a daze. A short, 
bitter laugh broke from his lips. 

“ Good heaven ! ” he muttered, staring across the de- 
serted common. “ As dead as Carthagenia itself. Why 
should I stay here? What is there for me? By 
George, I’ll get out before I’m a week older. Mary’s 
right. What a fool I am to think of wasting even a 
day in this place. I’ll tell Judge Bright I can’t take 
on the house for him. It’s out of the — ” 

A hand was laid on his shoulder. He turned to face 
his uncle. 

‘‘ A bad habit, Eric, talking aloud,” said the gaunt 
old man. 

“ I’ve just come to a decision. Uncle,” said Eric, a 
trace of excitement in his voice. 

I have an idea what it is, my boy. You were look- 
ing at the new Court-house. That tells the tale. It is 
a handsome building.” 

‘‘ No, no ! It isn’t that. Uncle Horace. I wasn’t 
thinking of the Court-house,” cried Eric hastily. 


^78 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


‘‘ Nevertheless, there must be a bitterness in your 
heart as you look at it. You are its creator, and yet 
the fact is known only to you and me. You have de- 
cided to tell the truth about the — er, ahem ! — the de- 
sign.” 

Horace was looking straight past his nephew’s head. 
The young man noted the deepening of the lines about 
his lips. 

He cried out in protest. “ I have not given it a 
thought. Uncle Horace. That’s all past. I don’t care 
— not now.” 

Horace looked into his eyes. “ It’s a terrible lie I’ve 
been living all these years, Eric. Sometimes I feel — ” 
The sentence died on his lips. A slight shiver went over 
his thin figure. His face hardened and the warm light 
in his eyes gave way to a hard glitter. ‘‘ There he is, 
over there, — under the Massasoit awning.” The utter 
irrelevance of the remark had a curious effect on Eric. 
He was at that instant thinking of Chetwynd Blagden. 

‘‘What!” he gasped, feeling himself turn pale. 

He turned to follow the direction of his uncle’s gaze, 
half-expecting to see the huge figure of his cousin. 

Adam Carr was standing near the entrance to the 
hotel, boldly detached, but looking in the opposite di- 
rection. 

“ I had another letter from him to-day,” said Horace, 
speaking as if to himself. “ Will he never bring this 
chase to — ” He caught himself up with a visible ef- 
fort, and closed his lips as if they were never to be 
parted again. 

“ What did he say in that letter. Uncle Horace ? I 
demand an answer,” cried Eric, his soul sick. 

“ Nothing that I can speak of to you or anyone else,” 
said his uncle harshly. “ But — ” and here his face 


THE PRODIGAL SISTER RETURNS 279 


seemed to turn positively livid — damn him, I will not 
let him see, I will never let him know ! ” 

Then, his manner changing like a flash, he apolo- 
gised for the single blasphemous word, and, thrusting 
his arm through Eric’s, deliberately led him down the 
street toward Adam Carr. They passed within arm’s- 
I reach of the man, whose back was still toward them. 

“ Good morning, Adam,” said Mr. Blagden as they 
passed. 

Adam still gazed into the cigarist’s window. 

“ Good morning, Horace,” said he briskly. That 
was all. They had been passing the time of day in this 
manner, on widely separated occasions, for years. 

Out of hearing, Horace lifted his arm and pointed 
to a row of small, unsightly buildings on the north side 
of the square. 

“ I own that row of buildings, Eric,” he said, as if 
there was nothing else in his tired, harassed brain but 
business affairs. They are an eye-sore, aren’t they? 
Well, I’m deeding that entire block to the city of 
Corinth. What is more, sir, in the very centre of the 
block, after we’ve demolished those unsightly structures, 
: there is to be erected the handsomest public library in 
' the state, designed by the most able architect I can think 
of, and built under his direction. It is to be called the 
Blagden Library, and it is to be designed by Eric Mid- 
thorne, and it is to cost $400,000. I am giving it to 
Corinth. I want you to build something for me, Eric, 
that I can be proud of to the end of my days.” 

Eric stared. ‘‘ Uncle Horace, are you era — I mean, 
are you in earnest ? Do you mean — ” 

“ By the way,” interrupted his uncle calmly, “ I’d 
like you to keep it a secret for a day or two. The 
deeds are being prepared by Mr. Graves. To-morrow, 


280 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


perhaps, I’ll give it to the Cowrier. I believe newspaper 
men would call it a scoop, or a beat, which is it? At 
any rate, we’ll supply the paper with editorial food for 
a month or more, eh? Blagden breakfast food, eh? ” 

He clapped the bewildered Midthome on the back 
and laughed his driest cackle. He was the same old 
Horace, after all, — the same old egoist. 

“ I can’t believe it,” murmured Eric, forgetting his 
own troubles in the face of this stupendous philan-* 
thropy that was to hang over the heads of the Cor- 
inthians till the crack of doom. 

“ You’ll see, my boy, you’ll see,” said his uncle. 
“ Come over this evening and we’ll discuss the plans. I 
have an idea or two myself, and so has your aunt. You 
may be interested to know that I purpose making Pres- 
brey the librarian in charge.” 

Again Eric stared. “ Why, I thought — ” 

‘‘ I daresay he’ll try to decline the honour at first,” 
said Horace blandly, “ but we shan’t accept no from 
any man so far as this undertaking is concerned. Oh, 
by the way, will Mary come to church on Sunday ? ” 
Yes,” said Eric. “ Are you sure you want me to. 
undertake a j ob as huge as — ” 

“No one else will be considered,” said Horace with 
finality. 

They had come to the stairway leading up to the 
editorial rooms of the Corinth Courier. With a grave 
bow to Eric, Mr. Blagden turned to mount them, first 
glancing up at the window from which the publisher 
was peering. 

“ He thinks I’m coming for the rent,” said Horace. 
“ Good day, Eric.” 

In a maze of mingled wonder and distress, Eric made 
his way homeward. He was filled with wonder over his 


THE PRODIGAL SISTER RETURNS 281 


uncle’s amazing act of generosity, distressed over the 
new complication that was about to be forced upon 
him. Out of the maze came a sharp, cruel revelation 
of Horace Blagden’s true motive in giving this great 
edifice to the City of Corinth. It was not for the sake 
of Corinth that he was doing it, nor for the perpetua- 
tion of the name of Blagden alone, but as a penance to 
his own disturbed conscience. 

It was his way of measuring expiation. 

But how utterly impossible it would be for Eric to 
accept this tribute I His heart was full. He under- 
stood his uncle, and he pitied him. The great man of 
Corinth was striving to right a wrong that now seemed 
trivial to the young man. Compensation: that was all 
it meant to Horace Blagden — a splendid recompense. 
He could think of no other way to pay so handsomely 
as this. The world would never know the true meaning 
of the gift to Corinth, yet he would be square with it. 
There was something truly pathetic in his method: pa- 
thetic because his own self-glorification was a secondary 
condition despite all outward appearances. 

As Eric entered his own little dooryard, the passive 
resolution that had been gently tugging at his con- 
science for years leaped into violent protest against 
further suppression. The time had come when he could 
no longer maintain silence. The truth would have to 
be told. 

He could no longer watch the suffering of those 
silent, harassed parents. He could not accept favours 
from them, knowing all that he knew. He would have 
to tell. 

First of all, he must have it out with Adam Carr. 
With this thought in mind he was about to retrace his 
steps toward the square in quest of the detective, when 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


28 a 

Mary’s voice called to him from the window of their 
cottage. 

He hesitated. The voice of his sister had a strange 
effect on his new-made resolve. What would all this 
mean to her? Suppose that Adam Carr turned against 
him; suppose that his friend denied him in order to 
protect himself from the wrath of Horace Blagden? 

These thoughts were racing through his brain when 
Mary came out upon the doorstep and called to him : 

“ Eric, don’t go away. Mr. Carr is waiting here 
to see you. He has heard that Chetwynd is in Rio 
iJaneiro and — ” 

With a mad cry, Eric dashed up the walk, sweeping 
her aside as he crossed the porch. The next instant, 
he stood in the little sitting-room, facing Adam Carr 
with blazing eyes and quivering lips. 


CHAPTER XVI 


THE STONE WAEE 

It’s got to stop ! It’s got to stop ! ” he almost 
shrieked, shaking his clenched fist at the man in the 
chair. 

Adam Carr did not arise, but appeared to shrink 
deeper into the rocking-chair, as if in actual retreat 
before the peril in Eric’s eyes. 

Mary looked on amazed, bewildered. “ Eric ! ” she 
cried, but he did not hear her. 

‘‘ Do you hear me, Adam Carr.? ” he shouted. “ It’s 
absolutely devilish. I’ve got a heart if you haven’t. 
I don’t care what happens to me, I’m going to put an 
end to it. Great heaven, man, can’t you see what 
they’re suffering? Haven’t you had your fill? Do 
you mean to keep on up to the day they die? Well, by 
heaven, you shan’t! Do you hear me? You shan’t!” 

Adam’s scowl would have checked a less excited, less 
distraught speaker. He leaned forward in the chair, 
his big hands gripping the arms. 

‘‘ It’s only been for six years,” he said, as much to 
himself as to Eric. Apparently he, too, was forgetting 
the presence of Mary. In the next breath he remem- 
bered her. You’d better hold your tongue, Eric^ 
Mary’s here. We can go outside and — ” 

“ No, we’ll stay right here. We’ll have it out, here 
and now. I mean to tell Uncle Horace the truth.” 

“ You will do nothing of the kind,” snapped Adam 
Carr, arising. 

Oh, I’m not afraid of the consequences,” cried Eric 

283 


284 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


savagely. “ I’ll pay the price, whatever it is. I can’t 
go on, that’s all. Good heaven, do you think I can see 
you calmly driving nails into their coffins as you — ” 

“ Stop just a minute,” said Adam sharply. “ Think 
what you are saying. Are you losing your mind? 
'Leave all this to me, Eric, I beg of you. I am your 
I friend, I — ” 

“ But I am their flesh and blood. My friend, are 
you? No! Adam Carr, you are my master. You own 
me, body and soul. Oh, don’t misunderstand me. I 
am not ungrateful. You have helped me. I shan’t 
forget all you did for me six years ago. But I didn’t 
realise what you were going to make of it. You tricked 
me into — ” 

‘‘Wait!” cried Adam, plainly distressed. “Don’t 
say that, Eric. I’ll admit I took advantage of — of 
everything — but I did not trick you. It was a fair 
game. I’ve kept my lips sealed. I’ve stood back of 
you in — 

Eric thrust his face close to the other’s. “ Do you 
mean to tell me that Jack Payson hasn’t had the whole 
story from you? Answer me that question. You can’t 
deny it.” 

Adam fell back a step, genuine astonishment in hii 
face. 

“No! Why do you ask? What has he said to lead 
you to believe — Nonsense! He doesn't know it. It’s 
impossible. Eric, there isn’t a soul on this earth that 
knows the truth, except you and I.” 

“ J ack knows, — I’m sure he knows,” cried Eric hotly, 
“ And how could he know, except through you ? I 
know what he is to you. But even at that, it was a 
blamed scurvy thing to doo” 


THE STONE WALL 


285 


The look in Adam’s eyes put a sudden check on the 
ruthless words that were rushing to his lips. The man’s 
face had turned a ghastly blue. He glared for an 
instant into the fierce eyes opposite, and then slowly 
drew back, reaching out with his hand for the support 
of a chair. The hue of apoplexy had covered his face. 
Eric had never seen a man who looked like this. He 
was filled with a sudden consternation. Was the man 
about to die ? 

“ Look out, Mr. Adam ! ” he cried out. “ Here ! 
Sit down ! I — I take it all back. I shouldn’t have 
said that. I’m half-crazy. — I’m out of my senses.” 

Adam waved him off. The purplish hue receded and 
left his face almost sallow. 

“ You mean that you take back what you said about 
— about what ? ” he demanded. 

“ About your having told him, of course.” 

“ Ah, I see,” said Adam, fixing Eric with eyes in 
which lay the light of humble appeal. “ You don’t 
take back the other.” 

Eric’s gaze wavered. “ That’s neither here nor 
there. We won’t discuss it, if you please.” 

“ Just as you please, Eric,” said Adam slowly. Then 
with a positive snarl in his tones : ‘‘ He doesn’t know. 

Get that out of your head. No one knows. No one 
need know. Let me finish. I’ll put an end to the whole 
game if you insist. Give me a week, — no, a month. 
I’m getting sick of the thing myself. The pleasure’s 
all gone out of it. I’m not altogether heartless; I 
can even feel sorry for Horace. But we’ve got to use 
judgment, discretion. I can’t go to him to-day with 
my lie about Chetwynd’s death in some foreign land, — 
or sea. It will have to be worked up slowly, deliberately. 


^86 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


Pve got the thing fixed in my mind. I shall tell him that 
the boy was killed in the South American revolution now 
in progress in — ” 

“No, no!” cried Eric, pounding the mantelpiece 
with his clenched hand. “ I’m going to make a clean 
breast of it. I’m going to purge my soul of all that 
curses it. No more trickery, no more lying, no more 
subterfuge, Mr. Adam. I’m not ungrateful for what 
you’ve done for me, God knows I’m not. I can only 
curse myself for letting it go on so long. I’ve been a 
dog, a coward, a — a demon. That’s it : a demon. 
But I can’t go on with it. I just can’t! ” 

Adam laid a hand on his shoulder. “ You’d better 
be guided by me, my boy,” he said kindly. “ I am 
your friend, and I am in full possession of my wits. 
Which is more than you can say. Let it go as I have 
planned. There’s no harm in that. I’ll go to Horace 
in a few days and put his mind at rest forever. I 
will produce positive proof that Chetwynd is dead 
and — ” 

A sharp cry broke from Mary’s lips. The two men 
were again conscious of her presence in the room. 
She was standing near the window with her back to the 
light, her hands clasped over her breast. 

“Eric! What is he saying.?” she cried in a shrill, 
unnatural voice. 

Her brother hesitated and then sprang to her side. 

“ I don’t know how to tell you, Mary dear. It’s such 
a horrible — Yes! I’ll get it over with. I’ll begin 
with you, Mary. Do you remember the night you 
dreamed that Chetwynd — ” 

“ For heaven’s sake, boy,” groaned Adam, “ stop and 
think before you do this.” 

“ No ! It’s now or never. You remember that night. 



“No! It’s now or never.” (Page 286) 









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THE STONE WALL 


28 T 


Mary, don’t you? ” he rushed on, something like frenzy 
taking hold of him. ‘‘ Six years ago? I slept on the 
floor in — ” 

“Yes, yes, I remember,” she cried, bewildered. 

“ Well, that was the day that Chetwynd died. He 
did not run away. Mr. Carr has not been looking for 
him all these years. He’s been dead all the time.” He 
stopped to pull the collar away from his throat. 

Adam Carr dropped his arms dejectedly and turned 
away. 

“ Impossible ! ” gasped Mary. “ Why — why. Uncle 
Horace has been expecting him home all — ” 

“ Uncle Horace doesn’t know. No one knows but 
Adam Carr and — I. Sit down here beside me, girlie. 
I’ll tell you the whole story, and Adam Carr will vouch 
for it. I’m going to tell Uncle Horace, too. He can 
do what he likes with me — hang me, if he wants to, — 
but I’ve just got to tell.” 

He drew her down beside him on the sofa, over in 
the darkest corner of the room. Then, for ten minutes, 
he delivered his soul to her. She sat as one petrified^ 
white and still, staring with unblinking eyes at his 
twitching, distorted face all the while he poured out his 
unhappy story. 

Once her gaze was diverted, ever so briefly, to fol- 
low his as it went to the broad, motionless figure of 
Adam Carr, who stood at the window looking out upon 
the street. 

“ But, Mary, Mr. Adam says it was not murder,’^ 
pleaded Eric in conclusion. “ He says it was an ac- 
cident. It might just as well have been I who went 
over — ” 

“ And he’s been dead all these years,” she murmured^ 
“ Out there in the ocean ? ” 


^88 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


“ Yes.” 

‘‘ He can’t be washed ashore ? It was a great iron 
chest, you say ? ” she went on dully. Her hand went to 
her temple. 

“ For heaven’s sake, Mary, don’t put it — ” 

“And they think he is still alive.?” 

He nodded his head slowly, his lips writhing. 

“ Oh ! ” she cried, as if in dire pain. A great shudder 
ran through her body. “ How horrible ! Oh, Eric, 
it was not right! You don’t know how they’ve suffered. 
I do. I have seen it all. And, God pity me, I have 
rejoiced in their misery more times than I can remem- 
ber. I used to laugh, — yes, actually laugh, — to see 
Aunt Rena sitting there in the window hoping that he 
would come up the walk — Oh 1 ” She buried her face 
in her hands. 

He held her tight in his arms, moaning a sort of ac- 
companiment to her dry, racking sobs. For a long 
time they rocked back and forth on the frail little 
sofa, clinging to each other as if fearing the presence 
of someone who stood ready to drag them apart for- 
ever. 

“ I did kill a man,” groaned Eric at last. “ They 
said I would, Mary.” 

“ Don’t, Eric ! Please don’t ! ” 

“ God! ” burst from his tortured lips. 

Adam Carr turned at this. For a minute he watched 
them through narrow eyes, then walked over to take his 
stand before them. 

Eric looked up at him, dully. 

“ Tell her I’ve told the truth, Mr. Adam, — the hon- 
est truth,” he begged. 

“ You’ve made an utter fool of yourself,” remarked 
Adam, but in a way that was not unkindly. 


THE STONE WALL 


289 


Mary looked up in angry amazement. Her moist 
tyes swept the figure of the speaker with a look that 
would have shrivelled a less imperturbable person than 
Adam Carr. 

“ How dare you say that to my brother? ” she cried. 

Adam smiled, almost approvingly. ‘‘ I’m not so sure 
that he’s a fool after all, Mary. The secret is safe 
with you. Now, if you love him, help me to protect 
him against this idiotic thing he calls a conscience, — 
or maybe it’s honour. I’m sorry he has told you all 
this. Not that it could be dragged out of you, my 
girl, with red-hot tongs, but that doesn’t help matters. 
You — ” 

I am glad he has told me,” she exclaimed. “ It 
isn’t right that he should bear it alone. Oh, Eric, if 
you had only told me years ago! I could have helped 
you, I could have comforted you. Why, — why, you 
are not a murderer. It’s preposterous ! ” 

We’re agreed on that,” said Adam. But will 
your Uncle Horace be so considerate? ” 

Mary shuddered. “ Eric, I am so afraid of Uncle 
Horace. He will be very bitter. He may — ” 

“ See here, Mary,” he broke in, coming to his feet 
with renewed resolution in his face, ‘‘ you’re not going 
to stand in my way, are you? You’re not going to 
side with Mr. Adam, are you? If that’s what you’re 
thinking of, let me tell you it won’t deter me. I’m 
going to Uncle Horace this evening.” Turning to 
Adam, he said with absolute finality: ‘‘You may do 
as you choose, Mr. Adam, so far as backing me up is 
concerned.” 

Adam’s smile was a wry one. “ I don’t occupy a 
very creditable position in the matter, my boy. Please 
don’t overlook that little point. See here,” with sudden 


290 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


Tehemence : “ do you think you’re playing fair with 
me? Where does this leave me? I did the best I could 
for you, and now you break faith. I did not expect it 
of you.” 

“ You have done a great deal for me,” said Eric ab- 
jectly. “ You must consider me an ingrate.” 

“ Not exactly that. I can understand how you feel. 
It’s not unnatural. You see, you’re not morally guilty 
of a crime. It’s irksome to live as if you were. I ad- 
mire your courage, your honesty — ” 

“ It isn’t courage,” cried Eric. It’s cowardice ! 
Good heaven, do you think that if I was as brave as 
you are I’d go into a funk like this? No ; I’m a coward. 
I can’t face the music any longer. I’ve lost my nerve. 
Why, every time Aunt Rena looks at me out of those 
sad eyes, every time Uncle Horace forgets himself and 
kts the lines set about his lips, I shudder all over. I’m 
a coward, that’s all there is to it.” 

“ I shouldn’t say that,” said Adam quietly. 

« Well, it’s the truth!” 

“ I still maintain that my way is best,” said the de- 
tective. “ You’d better let me see you out of the woods, 
Eric. I’m used to it; I’m quite capable. The minute 
I tell them that Chetwynd died in South America, they’ll 
be transformed. It’s anxiety, dread, uncertainty that’s 
doing the work for them now. Once they know — ” 

“ No,” said Eric firmly, “ it’s got to be my way.” 

“ Which means, in other words, that you want to get 
rid of me as a mill-stone.” 

Yes, Mr. Adam, that is one of the reasons.” 

Carr shrugged his shoulders. “ Then, I’ve nothing 
more to say.” 

“But you will tell Uncle Horace just how it hap- 
pened, won’t you? ” cried Mary anxiously. 


THE STONE WALL 


291 


He did not reply at once, but sat down in the rocker 
a few feet away, with his elbows on the arms of the 
chair, facing them. Although his face did not betray 
the fact that he was perturbed, an involuntary move- 
ment of the hands served to betray him. He took his 
pipe from his pocket and had it almost to his lips 
before he bethought himself and restored the disrepu- 
table thing to its habitual resting-place. 

Mary was watching the set, hard features with nar- 
rowing eyes, in which hope and fear struggled for 
supremacy. Eric, with his hands jammed into his pock- 
ets, stared sullenly down at the man. 

“ Give me time to think,” muttered Adam Carr. 

“ You surely will not desert him now,” implored Mary.- 
Her hand went forth in search of Eric’s. Not meeting 
it, the tense fingers clutched the skirt of his coat in a. 
frenzied grip. 

“ Horace may forgive Eric, but he’ll never forgive 
me,” said Adam slowly, calculatingly. There’s only 
one guilty person in this case, and that is me. Let’s be 
perfectly frank about it. I am the one who has made 
Horace suffer, not you, Eric. Can’t you see what he 
will do to me.f^ He will take it all out of me. He will 
ruin me, destroy me. I won’t say he can put me behind 
the bars, but he can make me the most despised creature 
in America.” 

‘‘ You should have thought of all this before,” said 
Mary sharply. 

“ I have,” quoth Adam, with a frown. If he meant 
to say more, he was checked by a sharp, eager exclama- 
tion from Eric. 

“ By George ! Listen to me ! ” His face was bright 
with a new resolve. He leaned forward eagerly, his 
voice dropping to a tense, insistent half-whisper. “ I 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


know how I can protect you, Mr. Adam. It’s as simple 
as A B C. You have stood by me; I’d be a dog to 
drag you down with me. Here’s what I can and will 
do. I will not mention your name in connexion with 
the affair. I will not call on you as a witness. I’ll leave 
you out of it altogether, and take the whole blame on 
myself. That will let you off clean as a whistle. 
There’s no reason why you should be punished for — ” 

‘‘ Hold on, Eric,” cried Adam, rising slowly from 
the chair to look the impassioned young man squarely 
in the eye. With an effort of the will, he managed to 
conceal the feeling of pride, of joy that Eric’s words 
produced. “ There are several obstacles to that sort 
of a plan. First, leaving me out of it, how are you 
going to account for the disposal of the body? ” 

A slight shudder ran over Eric’s frame. 

“ Oh, I can say that I weighted it with iron and 
rowed out — ” 

“ You haven’t told a lie in connexion with the affair 
up to date, have you? ” asked Adam levelly. 

“ Why, no — I haven’t even mentioned — ” 

“ Don’t you think it’s rather poor policy to begin 
now ? ” 

“ Well, it’s the only way I can think of to keep your 
name out of it.” 

Adam had been thinking hard all this time. His 
active, resourceful brain had been groping for the means 
with which to successfully combat this rather primitive, 
quixotic sense of honesty that afflicted Eric. To gain 
time: that was Adam’s sole purpose. The real object 
of his visit to the little Vemer cottage was forgotten 
in the face of this amazing revolt. Strategy — ay, 
more than that would be required in the handling of 


THE STONE WALL 


293 


the conscience-stricken man ; harsh, unfeeling measures 
would be necessary. Nor was he thinking only of his 
own safety, although, somehow, it was becoming para- 
mount. He loved Eric, in a strange, bear-like fashion 
peculiarly his own. He was a far-sighted man; he 
foresaw dark trials for the boy if his present purpose 
was carried out. It was quite impossible for him to 
realise that he, too, had been short-sighted. He had 
played a deep, ugly game without counting on the 
certainty of this very hour. Time now to curse his 
stupidity and to reckon the cost, not only to Eric but 
to himself. 

“ But suppose I don’t choose to be left out of it, what 
then ? ” he demanded in a hard voice. 

“ I don’t have to implicate you,” went on Eric ear- 
nestly. You can appear to be as much surprised as 
anyone when the truth comes out.” 

‘‘Just go on being a fool detective, eh?” retorted 
Adam with grim humour. “ Chasing a dead man for 
six years, eh? Do you think I have no pride? ’Pon 
my word, I’d rather be called a scoundrel than a fool.” 

Eric began to argue his point, but the older man cut 
him off short with the curt reminder that he was old 
enough to look out for himself. 

“ See here, Eric,” he continued, ignoring the hurt 
look in his young f riend’s eyes, “ we’ll get right down 
to cases. If you go to Horace Blagden with your 
tale, I shall have to tell the world what I know of the 
affair. Do you realise what that may mean? ” 

“ You saw the fight,” cried Eric. “ You can prove 
that it was self-defence, — no, an accident.” 

“ I can do nothing of the kind,” said Adam coldly*. 
He had thought of a way. 


S94 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


“ What do you mean ? ” stammered the other. 

“ Just this. / did not see the -fight, I saw one blow 
struck. I do not know what went before. I have only 
your word for that. Not competent testimony, my 
boy.” 

Eric’s face was a puzzle. 

“I — I don’t see what you are driving at, Mr. Adam. 
Surely you don’t — ” He stopped short, his lips twist- 
ing into a sickly smile. 

“ Don’t what.f^ ” 

You don’t mean that you doubt my word.?* ” 

Adam Carr shook his head. “ I’ve always said it 
was an accident, haven’t I.^ ” 

“ Certainly. Then what do you mean ? ” 

“ Do you suppose that any court, knowing my inter- 
est in the case, will accept my statement that I believed 
it to be an accident ? ” 

« Why not.? ” 

‘‘ Simply because what I believe and what actually 
occurred are in no way connected by fact. You did 
strike him. I did not see him strike at you. So far 
•as I can testify, you struck the only blow.” 

“ Good heaven ! ” 

“ Just think it over, Eric,” said Carr coolly. “ Don’t 
put your neck in a noose in the hope that I can get it 
out for you. He was a big, powerful chap. It doesn’t 
seem likely that — 

« Why — why, curse you, do you mean to say that I 
struck him without warning?” 

Eric was towering over the square, heavy figure, his 
face convulsed by rage. His arm was drawn back as if 
to strike. The older man did not flinch. 

“ You seem to forget that I taught you a blow that 
would be likely to catch any man off his guard. It 


THE STONE WALL 


295 


is a blow that never fails to do the work. That was 
the only blow I saw pass between you and him. As I 
said before: just think it over.” 

He picked up his hat and strode toward the door^ 
Eric sprang after him, rage giving way before appre- 
hension and dismay. 

‘‘Are you turning against me.'*” he cried. “WaitF 
Where are you going ? ” 

“ I am going to my room in the hotel. Day after 
to-morrow we may hear of Chetwynd’s death in South 
America. I am expecting a message to that effect* 
Believe me, I hope to receive the news before you go to 
your uncle with this tale of yours. It would hurt me 
more than I can tell, to be called to the witness stand 
against you, Eric. I am glad that I came here to-day. 
A good fairy must have sent me. I came for an en- 
tirely different mission, but — upon my soul. I’ve quite 
forgotten what it was. Good-bye.” 

He did not offer to shake hands with the amazed^ 
panic-stricken young man, but walked calmly out of 
the door and into the street, an ominous figure that 
filled their eyes until it was lost behind the hedges, — 
and even longer, for they had him in mind for many 
minutes. 

They had followed him to the door. Mary clung to 
her brother’s rigid arm, staring down the grey, wind- 
swept street, a great and growing dread in her lovely 
eyes. 

“ What are you going to do, Eric.'* ” she asked dully. 

He started, and turned to look down into her e3^es,. 
as if suddenly aware of her nearness to him. 

“ Do? ” he asked blankly. “ Why, he’s gone. He’& 
in Baxter Street by this time.” 

“ I wasn’t thinking of him,” she said, a shrill note 


S96 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


beginning to make itself felt in her voice. ‘‘ I mean 
about going to Uncle Horace.” 

“ I can’t believe that Adam has turned against me,” 
went on Eric, as if stupefied. “ But there was some- 
thing ugly in what he said, wasn’t there.? It — it was 
like a threat. God ! It was a threat ! ” 
t She shivered. “ Is this all real, Eric .? Am I having 
another of those terrible dreams.? I am so cold. Seel 
My hands are like ice. I — I — ” 

He clasped her in his arms. “ God forgive me, little 
sister! I’ve blighted your whole life. Why, — oh, why 
did I tell you this beastly thing.? Mr. Adam was right. 
He did his best to stop me. I’m a beast, a — ” 

“ Don’t, Errie, — don’t I Oh, brother, brother ! My 
big, good brother ! ” 

He drew her back into the room, still holding her im 
his arms. For a long time they stood motionless and 
silent in the middle of the little parlour, dry-eyed, dry- 
lipped and unseeing. She shivered again. 

‘‘ Close the’door, Errie,” she murmured. It’s queer 
how cold the air has grown. It’s off the sea. When 
did the wind change ? ” 

“ I’ll stir up the fire in the grate,” he said, with 
nervous haste. “ It’s the dampness.” He closed the 
door. 

She watched him poke up the embers and pile on the 
chunks of wood. 

‘‘ I hadn’t noticed the change,” he said mechanically. 

It is off the sea.” 

“ Where do you suppose he has gone .? ’* she asked, 
drawing near to the grate. 

He did not look up. She noted the greyish, blood- 
less look of his neck and half-averted cheek. 

‘‘We were standing at the corner above the Massa- 


THE STONE WALL 


S97 


soit House when Uncle Horace somehow felt his pres- 
ence. That was not more then ten minutes before I — 
What are you asking, Mary? Excuse me.’^ 

“ Where has he gone ? ” she repeated shrilly. 

“ See here, Mary, I’m in for something nasty,” he 
exclaimed, coming to his feet and running his hands 
into his pockets once more. “ I don’t know what to 
do. If I go to Uncle Horace now, Adam Carr will 
turn squarely against me. That’s plain. Somehow, I 
can’t find it in my heart to blame him, either. I sup- 
pose I ought to consider his position as well as my own. 
On the other hand, I can’t go on this way any longer. 
It’s unbearable. I can’t even look at Uncle Horace 
and Aunt Rena without cursing myself for a beast. 
Adam Carr has never let up on them — not for an in- 
stant. He’s been a devil, so far as they are concerned. 
I should have stopped it long ago.” 

He threw himself into a chair and stared, wide-eyed,, 
at the crackling, snapping logs. Mary stood at his 
elbow, looking down upon him, her eyes full of love 
and pity. Presently she laid a hand on his shoulder. 

“ I don’t believe Uncle Horace can forgive you, 
Eric,” she said. 

“ He can’t forgive me for letting it go on in the way 
it has,” he groaned. ‘‘ Why, it’s been hell on earth for 
them, Mary.” 

“ I pity them now,” she said simply. “ I never can 
love them — never! But I do pity them. If there is 
anything I can do, Errie dear, to make life easier, hap' 
pier for them, I shall try my best to — ” 

He did not look up, but as she hesitated he said 
quickly : 

“ They don’t want you to marry Jack Payson.” 

‘‘ Oh, Errie, can’t they overcome — ” 


'^98 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


“ There’s a great and sufficient reason for their op- 
position, dear. Something you don’t understand, but 
I do. Adam Carr’s greatest triumph over Uncle Hor- 
ace would come the day you married Jack Payson.” 

I don’t understand,” she cried, bewildered. 

, He checked the impulse to blurt out the horrid truth, 
) as he took it to be, — concerning J ohn Payson. She 
loved the fellow. Why strike at a heart that was al- 
ready sore and bleeding.? Why add another cruel slash 
to the wounds that perhaps were marking it for life.? 
And then, up from some dark, secret recess of his own 
heart, came an astonishing throb of pity for John Pay- 
son; a curious revolt within himself. After all, what 
wrong had John Payson done? Why strike an inno- 
cent, unsuspecting man in the back? Why inflict a 
wound that could never be closed? 

“ It’s something that dates back to the time when 
Pay son’s father was alive,” equivocated he. 

“ He was lost at sea. Were they enemies? ” 

“ I only know that Uncle Horace hated Jack Pay son’s 
father.” 

“ Then why did he put Jack in the bank ? ” 

“ Well, he got him out of it soon enough, didn’t 
he? ” demanded her brother, hard put for explanations. 

She waited a moment. “ There is something you are 
holding back, Eric,” she said, closing her eyes. “ How 
would you feel, dear, if I were to hint that Joan Bright 
isn’t what she ought to be? ” 

“ J oan ! ” he cried out, a new despair rising in his 
voice. He covered his eyes with his hand. “ What 
will she think when she hears what I have come to ? ” 

“ If she loves you, she will not let anythmg come 
between,” said Mary, slowly, significantly. The true 
appeal in her words was lost on him. He walked over 


THE STONE WALL 


299 


to the window and stood there, staring blankly out into 
the little garden. For a long time she kept her eyes 
on his straight, tense figure. Then she moved up closer 
to the fire, resting a hand on the mantelpiece as she 
looked down into the writhing flames. Finally her 
shoulders relaxed and drooped, and her whipped gaze 
went once more to the back of him who was so racked 
and harassed. 

She crossed slowly to his side. 

“ Eric,” she said, her voice very low and unwavering, 

I will give Jack up if it will make you happy. I — 
I shan’t see him again.” 

“Good heaven, Mary, you — you would do that.?” 
he cried hoarsely. “ Why, little sister, you — you — 
No, by heaven, you do not make me happy. You make 
me feel so small, so puny, so ashamed of — 

“ Don’t, Eric, I beg of you ! ” She spoke rapidly, 
jerkily. “ I mean it. I will try to make them a little 
bit happier than they are. I will do this for you — ” 
She stopped in the middle of the sentence, the soft, 
warm glow in her eyes fading like a flash. In its stead 
came an almost venomous glitter, completely transform- 
ing her lovely face. “ But, wait! What am I saying? 
Why should I do this for them? They may try to hang 
you, Eric.” 

He took a long, deep breath. “ I can’t stay in the 
house any longer, Mary. I’ve got to get out where 
I can breathe.” He started toward the door, catching 
up his hat as he passed by the table. 

“ Where are you going ? ” she cried. 

“ I don’t know — oh, anywhere. Listen 1 Can you 
hear the breakers? A mile and a half to Stone Wall. 
There’s a big sea running. Mary, I haven’t been on 
Stone Wall in six years. I’m going out there now. I’m 


300 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


going to face the thing I’ve dreaded all these years. 
He’s out there somewhere. He hasn’t moved. It’s hor- 
rible to think of. But, I’m going to smash this con- 
temptible fear, once and for all. I’ll be back by dinner- 
time. Out there I can think it over, as Adam says. 
Don’t worry, dear, I will not — ” 

“ I am going with you, Errie,” she said quietly. 

“ No ! ” he cried, but she was rushing off for her hat 
and mackintosh. 

Half an hour later they crossed the bleak, wind-blown 
stretch of meadow land and came out upon the rocks. 
They had not spoken in all this time. The stiff gale 
that blew in from the Atlantic drove the words back 
into their throats. A fine drizzle smote them in the face. 
They had not noticed that it was misting when they left 
the cottage. 

“ This way,” he managed to say when they came 
to the forlorn coast-road which wound through the rocks. 

We’ll cross the bridge. If you care to look, you may, 
see where he fell. The clump of vines, too.” 

She kept pace with him, uttering no word. 

They stopped in the middle of the bridge, leaning 
side by side on the stout, new rail to look down into 
the ravine. He pointed to the jagged rocks and then 
to the mass of vines behind which Chetwynd’s body had 
been secreted on that memorable day. Then they passed 
on, skirting Bud’s Rock, and bent their bodies against 
the gale that shrieked across the rocky waste. It was 
a chill, raw wind that beat in their faces and cut through 
the clothes they wore, an insistent wind that seemed 
bent on keeping them back from the brow of the cliffs. 

At last they stood at the edge of the great Stone 
Wall, with the ocean snarling madly at the crags, two 
hundred feet below. Never had they seen the sea so 


THE STONE WALL 


301 


wild, so furious, so ugly. It came in, black and devil- 
ish, with none of the rollicking blues and greens that they 
were so used to seeing; nothing but great black things 
with hoary crests and foaming maws, crashing against 
the huge rocks that stood guard in front of the palisade, 
swirling in between and bounding back again as if sur- 
prised to find resistance so strong. 

A drab sky seemed to flatten itself like the low top 
of a circus tent over the whole world, sloughing off into 
a thick, impenetrable bank of fog which brought the 
bleak horizon close to hand, and out of which slipped 
shadowy billows that took vivid shape as they raced 
into the arena. On they came with ever-increasing size 
and velocity, only to shatter themselv^ against the 
mammoth barrier that had defied them for ages and 
ages. They struck with splintering force, roaring like 
a thousand cannons, swishing with the mighty hiss of 
a hundred cataracts, and then ground their way back 
for another and mightier assault. 

The puny spectators at the top of the cliff braced 
themselves against the wind and stared out over the 
majestic foe of all mankind. Mary pointed to a vast 
cleft in the wall far to the left; the fury there was 
greater than anywhere else, the struggle more sublime. 

“ It’s like a Paul Daugherty painting, Eric. How 
terrible it is to-day ! ” she cried in his ear. 

He was looking far out across the bounding waves, 
his eyes set on a certain spot in the shifting scape. 

“ The sea was like a mill-pond that night, Mary. 
How different now. It seems as though it is working 
up all this rage for my especial benefit. It’s a 
grewsome thought, but do you know I have a feeling 
that — that our cousin is doing all this. He’s trying 
to burst the sides of that staunch old chest, just as the 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


30a 

genii of old tried to split the jar that the fisherman 
found and opened. See! Follow my finger, Mary. 
Out there beyond Lord’s Point, eight miles or more, 
where it’s three hundred fathoms deep, — that’s where 
Chetwynd lies. No sea is strong enough to move that 
coffin of his. It’s buried too deep. All the grave- 
robbers in the world could not snatch Chetwynd from 
the grave he’s in. No! He’s there forever and ever. 
Isn’t it horrible ! ” 

“ Come, Eric, let us go back. Let us go far away 
from here. Why should we stay in Corinth.? Why 
stay here by the sea.? Think of the great, dry, peace- 
ful West, where the mountains — ” 

Listen,” he broke in, his voice rising to a monoto- 
nous, sing-song pitch, ‘‘ listen to me. The fishing off 
the Point used to be the best along the coast. They 
tell me there is no catch at all in these days, and hasn’t 
been for half a dozen years. The great catches are 
no more. The fishermen say that the stretch from here 
to the Eddy Islands is hoodooed. They can’t under- 
stand it. But I could tell them, Mary, I could tell 
them. There’s something out there that scares them 
away, that — ” 

“Why, Eric!” she cried. “You are losing your 
mind. What a silly thing to say. As if that could 
make any difference to a fish ! Don’t be ridiculous.” 

“Well, it’s queer, isn’t it?” he insisted. “You’ll 
have to admit it.” He stared out across the tumbling 
waters, white fear in his wide-spread eyes. She gave 
him a swift, furtive look, and then fell to trembling all 
over. Was he going mad.? 

“ Come away, Eric,” she cried, tightening her grasp 
on his arm. “ IPs horrid here. Let us go back. It’s 
tea time. See, it will soon be dark.” 




No; it can’t come ashore. It’s out there to stay- 

(Page 303) 








THE STONE WALL 


305 


“ I wonder — I wonder if it could be possible for 
weaves as big as these to wash an iron chest ashore. 
Maybe it’s coming now, rolling over and over on the 
bottom of — ” 

She screamed aloud. 

“ Don’t!” 

He had drawn close to the brink of the precipice, 
the better to search the foaming crannies far below 
with dreadful, eager eyes. After a moment, he 
obeyed the frantic tugging of her hands and fell back 
to a less perilous footing, a short laugh cracking on 
his lips. 

‘‘ No; ” he said, with a note of triumph in his voice, 

it can’t come ashore. It’s out there to stay.” 

“ Come, Eric,” she pleaded. 

He threw his arm around her. “ What a beast I am 
to keep you up here in the wind and rain. Why, you’re 
drenched. You’re half-frozen.” Swiftly aroused to 
compassion and concern for her, he led her away from 
the wild brink to a less exposed spot in the lee of a 
jutting rock. Here they were sheltered from the wind 
and the freezing drizzle; but the gale shrieked about 
their ears, and the sea roared all the more loudly be- 
cause they had slunk back from its fury. Great gulls 
careened past them, their screams no more than sharp, 
staccato barks, as of a dog in flight. 

The terror in Mary’s eyes was most distressing to 
him. She was trembling violently. Her wet hair had 
blown across her face. Her flgure was limp, pathetic. 

“ We’ll go back, dearie,” he cried. “ I’m sorry you 
came. You will be ill for all this. I should have come 
alone. That’s what I wanted to do. I wanted to smash 
this fear and dread I’ve had for years. Well, I’ve done 
it. I’m no longer afraid of Stone Wall or the sea out 


304 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


yonder. I can laugh at them and at myself for having 
been afraid. I can laugh at — ” 

Suddenly he stopped as if petrified. Even as he ut- 
tered his hapless boast, there came floating up to him on 
the wings of the gale, a harsh, never-to-be-forgotten 
laugh, mocking, distant, unlocated; came floating up as 
a part of the gibbering turmoil, out of the wind-racked 
Atlantic, out of Nowhere! 

“ Good God 1 ” he gasped, shrinking back against the 
rock with the glare of horror in his eyes. 

She looked at him in utter amazement — and dread. 
The terror in his face was something she was never to 
forget. 

“ Eric,” she whined. “ What is it ? ” 

His voice was hoarse. “Did — did you hear it.?” 

“ There is someone out here besides ourselves, Eric,” 
cried she, “ so, don’t be afraid. We are not alone, dear^ 
I heard someone — ” 

He turned upon her with a glad shout. “You — 3 
you did hear it, then.? You heard the laugh.? ” 

“ Yes, of course. Tramps, I suppose, sheltered in the 
caves over — ” 

“ Thank God ! Thank God ! ” he shouted. “ If you 
heard it, too, then it must have been real.” 

“Real.? The laugh.? Why, — why, Eric, how 
queerly you act. What of it.? Was it the laugh that 
— Ah ! See 1 There they are, — two of them.” 

She was pointing excitedly along the crest of the 
cliff toward the right. 

In bold relief against the leaden sky, the figures of 
two men stood out, clearly defined. Not more than one 
hundred yards separated the two couples on this bleak, 
supposedly deserted stretch of Stone Wall. 

In sheer amazement the Midthornes gazed at their 


THE STONE WALE 


305 


fellow-adventurers. Slowly into their intelligence stole 
the knowledge that these men were not strangers. They 
knew them well! Great, rain-coated men were they, 
wind-blown and sturdy, and they looked not toward 
them, but out to sea. 

Again the raucous laugh was wafted across the rocks. 

“ By heaven, Mary, it’s Adam Carr ! ” cried Eric, 
passing his hand over his eyes, a great weakness assail- 
ing him. 

Mary was staring hard at Adam Carr’s companion, a 
tall man in storm-hat and coat. 

“And John,” she cried, amazed. “John Payson!” 

At that instant the two men turned, as if so ordered 
by some strange, compelling force, and looked squarely 
at the spot where the Midthomes stood. 


CHAPTER XVII 


A BEGGAR COMES KNOCKING 

For many seconds they stared intently at each other. 
It was quite evident that John Payson had not been 
aware of this propinquity until the present moment. 
His surprise was apparent even at so great a distance. 
Not so Adam Carr. There could be no doubting the 
fact that he had known all along of the Midthornes^ 
presence on Stone Wall. Either he had followed them 
to the wild, lonely spot, or he had exercised that amaz- 
ing sense of clairvoyancy which he possessed, guessing 
correctly that Eric would venture first of all to the scene 
of his so-called crime before going to his uncle with the 
confession. 

At last Payson sent an eager cry across the rocks to 
Mary, calling out her name as he abruptly left his 
companion’s side to make his way toward her. Adam 
Carr sprang after him, clutching his arm. The younger 
man came to a standstill, plainly amazed by the act of 
his companion. A moment later they were to be seen in; 
earnest conversation, the older man apparently calm and 
obdurate, the younger expostulating vehemently. 
Thrice the latter sought to shake off the retaining 
hand. 

Finally they gave over talking and turned to con- 
template the couple in the lee of the rock. Two strong 
figures were they, silhouettes against the grey, unlovely 
sky, defying the wind that scoured the cliffs. 

“ Eric,” said Mary, her lips close to his ear, “ is there 
really a resemblance, or is my mind so full of Adam 
S06 


A BEGGAR COMES KNOCKING 


30T 

Carr that I can see no one else? Isn’t it odd that I 
should — ” 

It’s not a fancy, Mary,” said he gravely, without 
taking his eyes from the two men. “ The likeness is 
^ there. It’s real. Now, maybe you can begin to un- 
derstand.” 

; ‘‘ But I don’t understand,” she cried in perplexity. 

Suddenly light burst upon her. “ Oh, Eric, you — 
you canH mean that — that he — ” 

‘‘ See for yourself, dear. It’s odd you never noticed 
it before.” 

A low moan fell from her lips. She hid her face 
against his shoulder, blotting out the fantastic vision 
that smote her so cruelly. 

He was quick to comfort her. “ Nothing is sure in 
this world, Mary darling, and this may be a co-incidence, 
a freak of Nature.” 

“ Take me home, Eric,” came in smothered tones from 
his shoulder. 

He glanced toward the men on the brow of the cliff. 
Adam Carr waved his hand in a friendly fashion, and an 
instant later John Pay son did the same. Then, with 
seeming reluctance, he turned to follow the older man. 
Side by side, they hurried away from the edge of the 
Stone Wall, urged to swifter strides by the wind at their 
backs. Not once did they look behind. 

, “ They’re going, Mary,” said Eric. 

She raised -her eyes. Together they watched the two 
men until they were lost to sight among the rocks that 
lined the distant roadway. 

‘‘ I am afraid of him, Eric,” she moaned. I am 
afraid of Jack now. There was something terrible 
about him, something I’d never seen before, — never 
even dreamed of.” 


308 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


If he isn’t the son of Ad — ” 

“ Stop ! ” she almost screamed. “ I don’t want you 
to say it. You may be wrong. God may have played 
a trick on us, on every one. I’m beginning to think 
that God isn’t above small things like that. No, no! 
We must never speak of it. It hurts, Eric, oh, how it 
hurts.” 

“ On my soul, Mary, I’m sorry for him» He is a 
decent chap. I — ” 

“ He is a man, Errie, and I love him. I love him ! 
I shall love him till I die.” 

“ But you can see how impossible it will be for you 
to—” 

‘‘ Haven’t I said I would give him up ? ” she cried, 
beating upon his breast with her clenched hands. 
‘‘ Don’t ask me to say anything more.” 

“ Maybe it’s all right, after all,” he began, but she 
stopped him. 

“ If it’s all right, why should he be out here to-day 
with that man.? No! He stands with Adam Carr and 
he stands for Adam Carr. He is against you. There 
is a greater influence than my love at work with him.” 

‘‘ He tried to come to you.” 

“ Then, what was it that held him back ? ” she de- 
manded fiercely. 

He held her off, looking straight into her eyes, and 
spoke steadily, even calmly. 

‘‘ He had just been listening to Adam Carr’s story of 
the thing that lies out there in the sea. That’s why. 
He knows about me, Mary. That’s what held him 
back.” 

“ Eric,” she said, after a moment, “ I think we’d bet- 
ter tell everything to Uncle Horace.” 

“ Yes,” said he. “ I’ve made up my mind to do it.’^ 


A BEGGAR COMES KNOCKING 


809 


Wait till to-morrow, dear.” 

“ Why put it off.? ” 

‘‘ Please, Errie, — just because I ask it of you.” 

A sharp exclamation fell from his lips. The next 
instant he was pointing in the direction of Bud’s Rock. 
A man was hurrying toward them, a distant, wind-fight- 
ing figure that came on swiftly, regardless of the rough, 
uneven going and the crevasses. He held his hand be- 
fore his nose and mouth, to breathe the better in the face 
of the gale. 

“ It’s Jack! ” she cried eagerly. 

Her brother’s arms dropped from her shoulders, and 
a muttered word of execration ground its way through 
his teeth. Then, with no word of explanation, he ad- 
vanced to meet the on-comer, holding her tightly by the 
arm. 

Half-way across the bleak plateau, John Pay son 
stopped, planting himself squarely in their path. There 
he waited until they came up. Eric would have passed 
him by, with a hoarse command to Mary, but her lover 
shifted his position, obstructing the way. 

‘‘ What do you want ? ” demanded Eric, coming to a 
standstill and regarding him with blazing eyes. 

“ I want Mary,” said Jack Pay son resolutely. 

You’re a beast, Eric, to bring her out here on a day 
like this. Do you understand.? A beast.” 

Mary swirled in front of Eric, throwing herself on 
his breast, and clinging to him. She did not utter a 
word, but the act was significant. 

For a full minute her brother glared at Pay son. 
Then his anger fled before justice and reason. 

“ You’re right, Payson,” he exclaimed miserably. “ A 
selfish beast. Will you come along with us? Help 
me to get her back to the house.” 


310 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


Without a word, Payson sprang to her side, clasping 
one of her arms in his. Together they half-carried her 
across the wild, open plateau, across the ill-fated bridge 
and into the protected highway. 

She was limp with fatigue and excitement, and the 
pain that was in her heart. In the shelter of the defile, 
she begged him to stop until she could recover her 
breath and her lost composure. 

“ I couldn’t stand it, Mary,” Payson was saying, a 
world of anxiety in his voice. “ I couldn’t leave you 
out there. Adam tried to keep me from coming back, 
but I — ” 

“ I am so glad you came. Jack,” she cried. ‘‘ I won- 
dered why you went away without — ” 

“Here, here!” expostulated Eric. “Are you for- 
getting what you said back there ? ” 

“No,” she faltered; “but I can’t help saying this, 
Errie. Oh, I don’t know what I am to do.” It was a 
wail that cut him like a sharp-edged sword. 

He turned upon Payson. 

“ What were you doing out there with Adam Carr ? ” 
he demanded. 

“ I’m not answerable to you,” retorted Payson. 

“ Don’t quarrel,” pleaded Mary. “ Please don’t 
quarrel.” 

“ What was Adam Carr saying to you ? ” went on 
Eric recklessly. 

“ See here, Midthome,” began the other hotly, 
“ you’ve said some ugly things to me lately. I don’t 
care to hear anything more from you. Adam Carr is 
my friend. He’s yours, too. You ought to be ashamed 
of yourself for — ” 

“ What was he telling you ? ” repeated Eric. 

Payson opened his lips to speak, then thought better 


A BEGGAR COMES KNOCKING 


311 


of the impulse. He contented himself with a long, hard, 
even suspicious, scrutiny of the questioner’s face. 

“ Some other time, if you please,” he said curtly. “ It 
is our duty to get poor Mary home as quickly as possi- 
ble. Come, dear.” 

But she clung to Eric, ignoring the outstretched 
hand. Pay son fell away as if he had been slapped in 
the face. He kept pace with them all the way to the 
iVerner Cottage, but not a word fell from his lips in all 
that distance. 

It was quite dark when they came to the gate; the 
sharp, chill mist was still blowing. Mary’s teeth were 
chattering. 

“ Good night,” said Jack Payson. 

Eric hesitated. He had been thinking hard all the 
way up from the coast, but his thoughts were not hard. 
Somehow the maxdiness, the self-restraint, the very 
thoughtfulness of J ohn Payson wrought a subtle change 
in his estimate of th,^man. He was wondering if he was 
not really grateful to him, if he was not, after all, more 
than grateful. Years ago he had been sorry for him. 
Was he not sorry for him now.?^ 

“Won’t you come in, Jack.?’ ” he asked abruptly, 
holding the gate open. 

Payson stared, first at one, then the other. He be- 
gan to stammer an apology for hurrying on. 

“ Come in to the fire,” said Mary, looking at him over 
Eric’s shoulder. 

The look in those dark, piteous eyes decided him. 

“ I want to be friendly with you, Eric,” he said, “ and 
I want to speak with you about something that has just 
transpired. I will come in for a few minutes. First 
of all, Mary must get out of her wet clothes. And you, 
too. Something hot to drink.” 


S12 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


“ And bed for her,” added Eric meaningly. 

They entered the cottage. The room was quite dark, 
except for the space directly in front of the dying em- 
bers in the fire-place. The trio, with their shadows, 
filled the comer of the room nearest the door, where they 
had paused at a word from Eric. 

He glanced keenly about the room, then gave vent to 
a short, apologetic laugh. 

“ I half expected to find Adam Carr sitting here,” he 
said. 

“ He took the six-twenty for New York,” said Pay^ 
son. 

Eric started. “ Are you sure? ” uneasily. 

“ Certainly. At least, that was his intention. He 
had time to make it. We drove to Stone Wall, you 
see.” 

‘‘ Then you got there after we did? ” 

Payson smiled faintly, almost ironically. ‘‘ Spies 
don’t precede their victims as a general thing,” he said. 
“ I’ll replenish the fire while you are changing.” 

Mary left the room without once turning her bent 
head to look at her would-be protector. Eric followed 
her. He was back in a moment, however. Payson 
looked up from the pile of wood and kindling over which 
he stooped. 

“ Take off your wet shoes and stockings,” he ordered 
sharply. 

“ Time enough for that,” said Midthorne, coming up 
to stand over him. What were you doing out there ? 
Quick, before Mary comes back.” 

“ I’ll fix the fire first,” said Payson deliberately. 

Neither spoke for three or four minutes, while he laid 
the paper and kindling. When the fresh, blue flames 


A BEGGAR COMES KNOCKING 


31S 


began to dodge in and out among the logs, he arose and 
faced Mary’s brother, coolly brushing the wood-dust 
from his hands. 

“We were out there to look at the place where my 
father was lost. My father, mind you,” he said with 
curious emphasis. 

Eric’s satirical smile was not lost on him. 

“ Would you mind taking off your sou’wester. Pay- 
son ? ” he said, irrelevantly. “ It’s dripping all over 
the rug.” 

“ I’ll stand on the hearth-stone,” said the other. 
They were sparring for time in a most deliberate man- 
ner. 

“ Then, move over a bit. I’m also wet.” 

They stood side by side, with their backs to the blaze : 
two tall, tense figures that waited. Outside the wind 
shrieked and crooned by turns; the windows rattled in 
their frames; a soft, insistent beating on the panes, as 
of tiny insects hurtling, told of the rain that blew. 

“ I waited at old Jabe’s cottage for Adam,” said 
Payson abruptly, looking straight before him. “ I’d 
been worrying over something you put into my head, 
Midthorne. I couldn’t go to my mother about it. 
Adam was the only one who could explain. He did not 
hesitate. I had a buggy there. We drove out to Stone 
Wall. He showed me where my father’s schooner was 
last seen afloat, and where the wreckage came in, and 
the dead bodies of the crew. At the mouth of the 
ravine. My father went down and never came ashore. 
The schooner is out there now, on the bottom, half-way 
to Eddy’s Islands, a hundred fathoms down. And 
there, Eric, is where my father was buried thirty-two 
years ago.” 


su 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


“ Is that all he said? ” 

“ No, he said my mother was true to my father, as 
true as steel.” 

He was still staring at the opposite wall, his face set 
and white. 

“ Nothing about Chetwynd? ” demanded Eric bluntly. , 

Pay son turned in surprise. “ Chetwynd? ” 

“ Didn’t he tell you that Chetwynd is out there, too, 
in an iron-bound chest ? ” 

“Good heaven! What are you talking about? 
cried the other, in genuine amazement. 

“ Never mind,” said Eric grimly. “ What else did 
he say about — about me? ” 

“ That you as much as accused him of being my 
father,” said Payson, with wonderful self-control. 

“ I didn’t put it just that way. I as much as ac- 
cused you of being his son. There is a difference.” 

“ I ought to kill you.” 

“ Of course, he denied you,” said Eric. 

“Denied me? Oh, I see. You mean he disowned 
me,” said Payson grimly. 

“ I wonder at your complacency,” said the other, sur- 
veying him in no little admiration. 

“ It is not the time for anger,” was the calm retort. 
“ There is too much at stake. I have had many lessons 
in self-restraint. Wall Street is a great teacher and a 
great leveller of personal vanities. I’ve wanted to kill 
a good many men since I went there, Midthome. May 
I ask what grounds you have for assuming that he is 
my father?” 

“ The resemblance,” said Eric bluntly. 

Payson was silent for a minute or two. Involun- 
tarily his gaze sought the mirror that hung on the op- 
posite wall. The room was half-dark. 


4 


A BEGGAR COMES KNOCKING 


315 


“ Good God ! ” he exclaimed, his eyes suddenly con- 
tracting and expanding. He passed a hand over his 
own face, as if to see whether the movement would bo 
reflected in the looking-glass. 

“You see.?” said Eric gently, a great pity in his 
heart. 

“ It’s — it’s incredible ! He spoke of the resemblance, , 
but I had no idea it was so marked. Why, — why, I 
can see his eyes, his nose, his — ” 

“ See here. Jack,” broke in Midthorne impulsively, 

“ I’m sorry for all this. I can’t teU you how sorry I 
am. From the bottom of my heart, I hope it can all be 
cleared up satisfactorily. I hope it is nothing more 
than a furious freak of Nature.” 

Payson turned on him furiously. “ My mother is an 
honest woman! She couldn’t have done the horrible 
thing you are accusing her of. Only prostitutes de- 
scend to — ” He stopped suddenly. 

Eric had clapped his hands to his eyes, a deep groan, 
breaking through his bloodless lips. 

The other understood. “ I’m sorry, Eric,” he mut- 
tered, forgetting his own emotions in contemplation of 
his companion’s sudden pain. “ I forgot — ” 

Eric cut him off, his pride aflame. “ I don’t want 
your pity, or your explanations, or — ” 

Payson considerately left his side and walked to the 
window, peering out into the night, giving Midthorne 
time to recover himself. 

After a few minutes Eric spoke. 

“How does he account for the resemblance.?” he 
asked quietly. 

Payson returned to his place on the hearth-stone. “ I 
am willing to discuss these things with you, Midthorne, 
because you are Mary’s brother, and because you have 

i 


S16 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


Si perfect right to know who and what I am. I’d do 
just as you are doing if I had a sister and it was you 
who wanted to marry her. I’d ask questions of you, 
just as — ” 

“ And I’d tell you to go to the devil ! ” 

“ But,” went on the other calmly, “ if she loved you 
and you loved her, and I knew you to be an honourable, 
well-meaning chap, — as you are, Eric, — I’d give her 
over to you in a minute.” 

“ I daresay,” remarked Eric bluntly. 

Pay son chose again to ignore an offensive remark. 

But I would ask questions, as I said before,” he went 
on. They would relate to you and not to the people 
who brought you into the world. You ask me how 
Adam accounts for the resemblance. Well, he doesn’t 
attempt to do so. He knew my father well. They 
were boys and men together. All he will say is that I 
am like my father, and that my father was Henry Pay- 
son, who lies out there in the Atlantic. That is all I 
can get out of him. I’ll confess there’s an air of mys- 
tery about it, greater than ever, now that I’ve looked 
squarely into your looking-glass. My own seems a lit- 
tle less brutal. But he swears on his soul, as he loves 
me, — and I know he does, — that I have nothing to fear. 
Curiously, however, he forbids me to question my 
mother.” 

‘‘Aha!” ejaculated his listener. 

“ He is right,” protested Payson. “ How can I go 
to her with — well, with questions ? ” 

His voice shook with the sudden rush of an emotion 
that came over him so swiftly that he could not suppress 
it. He turned his back quickly and clenched his hands 
in the violent effort to regain control of himself. 

“ You can’t go to her,” cried Eric, casting off all re- 


A BEGGAR COMES KNOCKING 


31T 


serve. “ Not for all the world. Come, come, Jack,, 
buck up ! I am the last person in the world to con- 
demn you or any other man. If you can bring yourself 
to accept an apology from me, I offer it to you here and 
now, in my own house. What is more, I withdraw my 
opposition so far as you and Mary are concerned.” 

Payson had whirled and was staring at him with in- 
credulous eyes. 

“ I am not fool enough to ask you to overlook the in- 
sults I have offered,” went on Midthome rapidly. ‘‘ You 
will consider them worse than insults when you learn the 
truth about the man who — ” 

With a glad cry. Jack Payson stretched out his hands 
and grasped Eric’s shoulders. 

“ Nonsense ! ” he exclaimed, his eyes aglow. ‘‘ You’re 
hipped about something. Don’t you .suppose I can see 
there’s something wrong.? You’re not yourself. That’s 
why I can and do overlook the so-called insults. I don’t 
hold anything against you, Eric. We can’t help being 
friends. You don’t know how happy I am to hear you 
say that you won’t stand in the way of our marriage. 
It would have been unpleasant to defy you, but that — ” 
Just a moment, Payson,” interrupted Eric. “ I 
must tell you that Mary has decided that she can’t marry 
you. We’ve talked it over.” 

‘‘What!” gasped the other, dismayed. His jaw 
dropped. “ Impossible ! I don’t believe it. She loves 
me. Nothing could change — ” 

Eric held up his hand, smiling rather wanly as he met 
the distressed look in the eyes of Mary’s lover. 

“But I’ll see to it that she reconsiders. She doe^ 
love you. She’s doing all this for my sake, and because 
I have been so selfish as to make it quite impossible for 
her to do anything else but give you up. Take off your 


S18 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


coat, Jack. I’d like to have you stay for dinner with 
us. But before you accept the invitation, I have some- 
thing I want to say to you. I have a confession to 
make. I’m going to give it to the world to-morrow, 
but you shall have it first of all.” 

Back in the little dining-room the single maid-of-all- 
work was laying the table. With the opening and clos- 
ing of the kitchen-door there came subtly into the 
front part of the house the fragrant aroma of boiling 
coffee. 

“A confession?” demanded Payson, all at sea over 
the riotous turn his emotions had taken. ‘‘ What can 
you have to confess? ” 

The door of the hall opened suddenly. Mary stood 
before them, looking from one to the other with dark, 
questioning eyes. She had heard the last few words of 
Eric’s speech from behind the partly opened door, as 
she paused there for a final touch to her hair. A dainty, 
exquisite housegown of pink enveloped her slender fig- 
ure. 

‘‘ He has no confession to make,” she protested 
shrilly. “ Go away, Jack, please go away. I must 
talk with him alone.” 

Both men started forward, actuated by totally differ- 
ent impulses. 

“ I’ll go, Mary, if you ask it of — ” began one, with 
an eloquent tenderness in his voice. He felt rather than 
understood the gravity of the situation. 

“Wait!” remonstrated the other. “It’s only fair 
to Jack, Mary. I’ve asked him to stay. But it must 
be settled beforehand, whether he is with me or against 
me. Please go back to your room, dear, until I’ve — ” 

“ No,” she said firmly, advancing into the room. 
“ Jack, dear, if you love me, go! ” 


A BEGGAR COMES KNOCKING 


319 

Payson looked from one to the other, in plain dis- 
tress. 

“ If he really loves you, he’ll stay and hear what I 
have to say. That will be the test,” said Eric. 

‘‘Will you go. Jack?” she pleaded, coming up ta 
him and putting her hands on his arms. 

“ Certainly,” he said. 

Eric, in dumb wonder, watched him slip into the storm 
coat he had discarded the moment before. He offered 
no further resistance to his departure, but seemed liter- 
ally to shrink into the background, although, in plain 
truth, he did not move an inch from the spot on which 
he stood. 

Mary walked to the door with her lover. There he 
turned and put his strong hands on her shoulders. He 
made no vulgar display of his love ; and it was a great, 
masterful love. His eyes alone caressed her. 

“ I’ll come to-morrow, Mary. Whatever it is that 
distresses you, — and Eric, too, — thresh it all out to- 
night. It’s better that you should. Then, dear heart,^ 
when I come to-morrow I shall be able to help you. Ask 
anything of me. I am your slave. Good night. Good 
night, Eric.” 

He passed out into the night, gently closing the door 
behind him. For a moment she stood where he left her, 
stared dumbly at the closed door. The sound of his 
footsteps crossing the porch came to her, then the brisk 
tread on the gravel walk. 

She put her arms against the door and laid her head 
upon them, burying her face. For a long time she held 
this rather tragic position. There was no sound in the 
room. Eric was watching her inertly. The maid-of- 
all-work dropped a knife on the dining-room floor.. 
They did not hear it strike. 




MARY MIDTHORNE 


At last she raised her face, looking straight above 
her, as if to heaven. After a moment, she turned to her 
brother. 

‘‘ You must change your clothes, Errie. Dinner will 
be ready in a few minutes,” she said wearily. 

“ You’ve just got to be happy,” he cried from the 
very depths of his tortured soul. “ My poor, brave lit- 
tle Mary,” 

She smiled wanly. “ Dear old Errie ! ” 

Hours afterward, they sat before the cheery fire-place, 
silent, reflective, depressed. It had been a sorry meal, 
that dinner of theirs. The garrulous New England 
servant, old for her years, — which were surprisingly 
few as things go in old New England, — gave up all 
efforts to draw the master and mistress into conversa- 
tion. Never before, in all her time as “ help,” had she 
failed so utterly to inspire communicativeness. It cer- 
tainly was upsetting. Her name was Lizzie, — a New 
England Lizzie, at that. An Elizabeth by any other 
name would have smelled a rat. 

No word had passed between brother and sister for 
the matter of an hour or more. Her hand lay clasped 
in his on the arm of the chair he occupied. Their 
thoughts were their own. She had kissed him when he 
announced his decision to put no obstacle in the way of 
JTohn Pay son’s courtship. 

Suddenly there came a rapping at the door, a gentle, 
measured tapping that rose distinct above the boisterous 
bedlam of the winds. 

A sort of terror took hold of them. The hand clasp 
tightened, their eyes grew wide with wonder and alarm. 
They waited, staring into each other’s eyes, motionless 
iin the chairs, their hearts thumping loudly: waited for 


A BEGGAR COMES KNOCKING 


321 


the ghostly sound to be repeated. Eric’s ears, strangely 
enough, were strained to catch the sound of a well-re- 
membered laugh. 

Again the tapping, still gentle but a little more im- 
perative. They turned their faces toward the door. 
Their eyes were glued to the prim white knob. It 
turned, and the door was slowly pushed ajar. 

A tall figure stood on the threshold, outlined against 
the blackness beyond. A gaunt, thin figure that waited 
there for a word of welcome from within. 

The picture held for a minute. Then Eric sprang- 
to his feet with a cry, more of relief than surprise. 

' “ Uncle Horace ! ” 

Involuntarily Mary glanced at the clock on the man- 
telpiece. The thought uppermost in her mind was re- 
vealed in that significant act. What was Horace Blag- 
den doing abroad at this time of night At half-past 
nine, and such a night as this! She started forward 
impulsively. 

“What has happened. Uncle Horace.?” she criedt 
These were the first words she had spoken to him in many 
weeks. 

“ May I come in .? ” asked Horace, rather humbly — 
for him. He looked thinner, more ascetic than ever be- 
fore, in the long black raincoat and the white kerchief 
that protected his throat from the shrill winds. His 
tall hat seemed to set lower on his head; his thin shoul- 
ders were higher; his eyes appeared to have shrunken 
farther back into their sockets. A dripping umbrella 
hung suspended from his gloved hand. 

He seemed to have aged vastly in the few hours that 
had passed since Eric’s conversation with him in the 
public square. 

The young man sprang forward and grasped his 


S22 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


uncle’s hand, suddenly aroused to a sense of duty — • 
and compassion. Mr. Blagden stepped inside, but, re- 
sponding to the habit of a lifetime, caught himself up 
in time, and turned to desposit his umbrella in the niche 
outside the door, which he closed gently an instant later. 

“ Is there anything wrong with Aunt Rena.? ” de- 
manded Eric. “ What brings you out on a night like 
this? ” . 

“ I shan’t remove my coat, Mary,” said Mr. Blagden, 
as she took his hat and stood waiting for him to unfasten 
the cape of his coat. “ It w . a dreadful night. I 
thought I should be blown away crossing the common. 
How warm and cosey you have made it here, ’ Pon my 
word, I had no idea Mrs. Vemer’s place, was' so attrac- 
tive.” 

Sit down. Uncle,” said Eric, pulling a chair up to 
the grate. I — we are glad to see you here,” he 
iloundered, considerably at a loss for words. 

“ Thank you,” said Horace. “ Perhaps it would be 
better if I removed my coat. An umbrella is of scant 
service on a night like this, what with the wind blowing 
and the rain coming from all sides.” 

Eric relieved him of the coat, while Mary undid the 
muffler. To their amazement, he wore, instead of the 
customary frock-coat, the familiar old dressing gown 
they had known since childhood. With one accord, 
they looked at his feet. They were encased in the 
ancient carpet slippers that Aunt Rena had made for 
him a score of years before, once a toasted brown, now 
a water-soaked black. 

‘‘For heaven’s sake!” cried Mary aghast. 

Noting their concentrated gaze, he looked down. For 
a moment he was silent. Then he sat down rather ab- 
ruptly in the big chair. 


A BEGGAR COMES KNOCKING 


S2S 


‘‘ Well, I — I declare ! ” he murmured, blinking his 
jeyes. “I — I hadn’t noticed that I — ” 

They did not wait for him to finish the plaintive com- 
ment On his own unhappy plight. Mary gave com- 
mands, and both set about to provide warm stockings 
and slippers for him. He submitted to the changes 
without a protest, and even smiled when she produced a 
huge pair of gum-boots from the hall-closet. 

“ You will catch your death-cold,” she said. “ How 
could you think of coming out in those slippers, Uncle 
Horace ? They — ” 

His smile deepened. “ That’s just it, my dear,” he 
said. “ I didn't think of coming out in them. Dear 
me, I ^ — I — But, of course, I was in a great hurry. 
I don’t believe I have ever ventured beyond the porch 
in these slippers before. You are very good, both of 
you. Very good.” 

They stood above him, looking down with puzzled, 
distressed eyes, both suddenly mute in the presence of 
what now shaped itself into a tragedy. 

Mr. Blagden held out his hands to the fire, shivering 
as with a chill. Then he allowed his gaze to sweep the 
warm, lamp-lit room. 

‘‘ You are very comfortable here, I am sure,” he 
said slowly, as if weighing something in his mind. 
« Very comfortable and happy in your own little 
home.” 

“ Yes,” said they, without thinking. 

His shoulders seemed to settle deeper in the chair, his 
chin sank ever so slightly. 

“I 1 fear, then, that my mission to-night is — er 

— ahem ! — a rather hopeless one. If you will help 
me on with those boots, Eric, I will go back to your 
aunt : — ” 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


S24i 

“ In heaven’s name, Uncle Horace, what has hap- 
pened ? ” cried Eric. “ What is it ” 

Mr. Blagden looked from one to the other before re- 
sponding. There was something abjectly pathetic in 
his face. He gulped, and his firm square chin trembled. 

“ Well, — you see, — ” he began, with an effort, “ — I 
came x)ver to-night to ask you both to come back to — 
to — ” He got no farther. His voice choked and tears 
started up in his eyes, — eyes that had not felt the smart 
of tears since boyhood’s earliest pains. 

The Midthomes, in that moment’s utter crumbling on 
the part of the great man of Corinth, felt the passing 
of a life-long spirit of antagonism and restraint. It 
melted and oozed away, leaving their hearts empty, and 
aching, and cleansed of all the things that rankled. 

They were young and strong, and their souls were 
sweet despite the bitter seeds that this gaunt old man 
had planted in his years of plenty. Now he was come to 
his days of famine. He had sown, and he had reaped, 
and his bins were empty. He was poor, he had come to 
beg ! 

They stood beside him. Their hands fell upon his 
drooping shoulders, and rested there while the strong 
f^urrent of human sympathy gushed from their hearts 
into the famished soul of this wondering old man. 

He looked up, strangely dazed; he could not under- 
stand the sensation that was creeping over him. He 
had never felt anything just like it before in all his life. 
No one had ever presumed to such gentle familiarity, 
such frank fearlessness. It zeras a sensation. 

“ Why, Mary — ” he began, a great question leaping 
into his wet eyes. He tried himself first, before going 
on, just to see if he could smile as she was smiling. 


A BEGGAR COMES KNOCKING 


3^5 


Then, feeling his lips relax, he could not trust himself 
to further speech for very fear of saying something 
that might destroy the sweetness of his discovery. 

And so they waited until the warmth was in them all, 
until the heart-beats were strong and free. 

At last Mr. Blagden spoke. His voice was low and 
full of gentleness. 

“ Of course, I can’t think of asking you to leave a 
cheery, delightful nest like this for that cold, barren 
place I call home,” he said wistfully. “ It’s not to be 
thought of. We — your aunt and I — were so selfish 
as to hope you might come back if I were eloquent 
enough to — > But, of course, we couldn’t have known 
how nicely you are situated here. This little room is 
more eloquent than I could ever hope to be. It is an 
argument that I cannot meet.” His bony fingers sud- 
denly gripped the arms of the chair. ‘‘ But, God help 
me! I can’t begin to tell you how bleak and cold and 
dead our rooms are, — how great the contrast. Ah, my 
children, you have all the light. We have none. Your 
Aunt Rena is — ” Again he stopped short, visibly 
moved. 

They instinctively felt that their aunt was in even 
greater anguish than the ambassador who found it so 
difficult to state his mission in plain terms. 

“Is Aunt Rena ill.'^” asked Eric, with the desire to 
make it easy for him to go on. 

“ If she is ill, — if she wants us. Uncle Horace, we 
will go to her at once,” added Mary, after a quick look 
into her brother’s eyes. 

Horace’s face brightened. “You will.'’” he cried 
eagerly. “ It is very good of you, — very. I can’t 
tell you how much good it will do her to — to see you 


S26 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


again. Of course, — ” he hesitated once more — of 
course, her heart is set on having you back there to — 
to stay.” 

Another protracted period of silence. Horace ap- 
peared to be reading their thoughts, for it was he who 
broke the silence. 

“ She is ill,” he broke out despairingly. “ Not phys- 
ically ill, but mentally. Her soul is sick. She — she 
seems worse to-night than ever before. A dream, — a 
horrid dream this afternoon has upset her terribly. She 
refuses to go to bed to-night, fearing a repetition. I 
am unnerved. I couldn’t endure it any longer. Your 
hearts would be touched if you could see her to-night. 
All evening long she has been wondering if you will 
ever come back. She knows that Chetwynd is dead. 
You see, she — ” 

Eric started. She knows Then, — ” 

‘‘ It came to her in the dream. And it was so very 
real, as she describes it.” Horace arose stiffly. “ I do 
not feel it is right for me to ask you to come with me 
now, but — but — ” 

“ We’ll go. Uncle Horace,” said Mary resolutely. 
She knew that the decision rested with her. 

Five minutes later, the three of them went forth into 
the night, huddled close together to fight the wind, with 
Mary in the centre. The clock in the Court-house 
struck the hour of ten. 

‘‘ I will tell you of the dream when we reach the 
house,” Mr. Blagden had said as they left the porch of 
the Vemer cottage. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


AFTER THE SERMON 

There was a vague, almost shadowy light in the par- 
lour windows. A reflected glow from the dim old 
porch-lamp that hung above the front steps of the 
‘‘ Giant’s Castle ” threw the curtained windows into 
dull relief. 

As the hurrying trio came up the gravel walk, their 
gaze was centered on one of these windows, held by a 
common anxiety. Not one, but all of them knew that a 
long-used chair stood close beside this particular win- 
dow. 

They were nearing the steps when one of the rigid 
curtains moved ever so slightly, and yet distinctly. It 
parted from its mate an inch or two and then became 
motionless once more. The effect was weird, uncanny, 
almost ghostly. Someone sat behind this curtain watch- 
ing their approach; an unseen hand held the curtains 
apart ; a pair of wistful eyes peered out of the loneliness 
that lay in the room behind. 

Horace Blagden sighed audibly. 

Once inside the door, he checked his companions with 
a whispered word and the raising of a finger to his lips. 
They stood there for a moment, listening. 

“ Go into the library,” said he, in a lowered voice. 
“ I think your aunt is in the parlour.” 

He crossed the hall and softly opened the door, paus- 
ing an instant before entering. As the door closed be- 
hind him, Eric and Mary turned toward the library, 

where a light gleamed through the transom. 

327 


328 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


“ You will not tell them to-night? ” whispered Mary, 
clutching his arm. 

“ No,” he replied without hesitation, “ I haven’t the 
heart. Why, he seems happy — actually happy.” 

They waited in the old, familiar room, curiously awed 
by its Blagdenesque primness after their own rather un- 
conventional disorder. Mary removed her hat and laid 
it on the table with her gossamer and gloves. It was 
an inspired act on her part, as subsequent events proved. 

Mr. Blagden came in a few minutes later, holding 
open the door that his wife might pass before him. 
There was a contented smile on his thin lips. 

“ There, my dear,” he said gently, waving his hand 
in the direction of the two Midthornes ; “ I am sure you 
can’t call those fine flesh and blood creatures dream 
fancies. They are very real, and won’t disappear be- 
fore morning, as you say.” To Eric and Mary: 

Your aunt is positive she is only dreaming you are 
here.” 

A wavering, uncertain smile appeared on Mrs. Blag- 
den’s face. She advanced, holding out her hands, al- 
most shyly. 

The young people sprang forward, each grasping a 
slim white hand. Mary impulsively threw an arm about 
her aunt’s shoulders and drew the thin, shrinking figure 
close to her strong, eager body. Then she kissed the 
tremulous lips of the woman who had done nothing in 
her life but hurt her. 

She’s come to stay. Aunt Rena,” said Eric. 

Mrs. Blagden withdrew her hand from Eric’s and 
slowly, gently passed it over the cheek of the girl. Her 
eyes were soft and imploring. 

“ Oh, my dear, dear Mary,” she murmured, “ are you 


AFTER THE SERMON 


329 


guite sure that you meant to kiss me like that? Do you 
really mean to — ” 

Mary kissed her again. “ I do mean it, Aunt Rena, 
I do mean it.” 

“ I have been very unkind, very unjust to you,” said 
Mrs. Blagden, still searching the girl’s face with won- 
dering eyes. 

“ I can forget. Aunt Rena,” said Mary, quite simply. 
She did not commit the error of trying to appear 
definitely reconciled. 

“ I am sorry for all that I may have done, my dear,”^ 
said her aunt humbly. “ I can say no more. But, — 
but I do love you ! I do want you ! ” 

It was a wail from the very bottom of a hungry, un~ 
happy soul — a soul that still belonged to the blithe, 
untrammelled Rena Van Dykeman of another day, and 
that now said good-bye forever to its Corinth environ- 
ment. 

“ And you, too, Eric,” she went on, more calmly. 
She eyed him fondly, and patted his arm. You are 
my son now. I want a son. I need a son. Your 
uncle needs you.” 

“ I do, indeed,” spoke up Mr. Blagden, unsteadily. 
“ Now, my dear, don’t you think you’d better retire? 
You are very tired. It has been a hard day for you.” 

‘‘ It was very thoughtful of you, Mary, to take off 
your hat before I came in,” said Mrs. Blagden irrele- 
vantly, even as she laid her hand on her husband’s arm. 
“ It made it so easy for me. You will forgive me if 
I say good night now. Good night, Eric. You will 
find your rooms just as you left them. Martha has put 
out your things, — some that you forgot to take away 
with you. I’ve kept them in my bureau since — Yes> 


S30 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


;yes, Horace, I am coming. Good night, Mary. I am 
so glad you have come back to us. Martha will call you 
as usual in the morning.” 

In the doorway, Horace turned to speak to the deeply 
moved young man and woman. 

“ Will you be good enough to wait here for a little 
/ while I am coming down to close up the house.” 
There was something significant in the way he put it. 
They were wet and uncomfortable, yet they would not 
have thought of going upstairs before their uncle laid 
bare the conditions which had sent him out into the night 
so bravely. 

The change in Horace’s nature was most strikingly 
illustrated by the next remark that fell from his lips. 

Oh, dear me, I almost forgot that you are wet and 
cold. Come upstairs to your rooms. Martha will get 
out dry stockings and slippers for you. And she shall 
make mustard baths for your feet before you go to bed. 
And hot lemonades.” 

When the Midthomes came downstairs later on, after 
changing a part of their apparel, they were amazed to 
find Horace Blagden on his knees before the fireplace, 
clumsily starting a fire in the grate. His lack of ex- 
perience was evident, his embarrassment undisguised. 
Eric went to his assistance. 

Presently they were seated before the snapping 
coals. 

“ Your aunt’s dream,” said Mr. Blagden, “ was a 
most distressing one. It was so real that she can’t get it 
out of her mind that we are to hear bad news of Chet- 
wynd. You see, I mention his name once more. I do 
so because I am confident that he is not in the land of 
the living, Adam Carr to the contrary. Not a day 
passes that I do not expect to hear through that excel- 


AFTER THE SERMON 


331 


lent blood-hound that my son has come to his death in 
some far-off land and that the chase has ended.” 

‘‘ But, Aunt Rena’s dream, please,” said Mary, with 
a quick glance at Eric’s twitching face. 

Horace moistened his dry lips with his tongue. “ She 
was taking her nap this afternoon, as usual. A vision 
came to her. It was more than a dream. In this vision 
there appeared a series of vast cliffs and precipices, 
reaching so high in the sky that all the world seemed to 
lie below them. Far below, at the base of these dreadful 
cliffs, was the sea, — miles and miles below, she declares. 
The breakers came rushing up in the shape of gigantic 
hands and arms, all of them reaching upward in the ef- 
fort to clamber to the top of the sheer walls of stone 
that touched the sky. 

“ She came out upon the loftiest of all these cliffs and 
sat down to rest, with her tired feet hanging over the 
ledge. The great arms and writhing fingers redoubled 
their efforts. They climbed higher and higher, but they 
could not reach to her feet. A huge, black-lipped 
mouth opened and closed, showing its teeth, in the sea 
below, — a vast maw that craved her as with an appe- 
tite that knew no pity. As she sat there, looking wear- 
ily about, almost at the gates of heaven, another figure 
appeared on the cliff not far away. It was Chetwynd. 
He approached to the very edge, and stood looking out 
over space, his hands on a flimsy railing she had not 
noticed before. She cried out to him and would have 
risen to go to him but for that strange paralysis that 
one experiences in dreams.” 

He paused to clear his throat. Eric drew a long, 
deep breath and relaxed his grip on the arm of the 
chair. 

“ Then she tried to call out to him, but no sound 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


SS2 

above a whisper could she force from her lips. Anothei* 
figure came creeping up from behind, the figure of a 
man whose face she could not see. This man stole upon 
Chetwynd and struck him a violent blow, sending him 
through the rail and over the — ” 

Eric leaped to his feet, a cry of horror on his lips.. 
Then, to the utter amazement of his uncle, he rushed 
from the room. 

Mr. Blagden turned to Mary in great distress. 

“ Dear me,” he said ; ‘‘ dear me ! What have I said ? 
I — Where are you going, Mary ? ” 

‘‘ To Eric ! ” she cried, in great agitation. A mo- 
ment later, Horace Blagden sat alone in his library, 
staring at the door, vastly perplexed, and with a great 
apprehension growing up in his heart. 

He heard the rush of swift footsteps in the hall up- 
stairs, the slamming of a door, and then no other sound 
save the merry crackle of the coals. 

Two days went slowly by. They brought forth an 
early apology from Eric for his rude behaviour in the 
library, but no explanation. He had decided to wait 
for the last word from Adam Carr. Not that he lacked 
the courage or the will to deliver his secret, but that 
newly made conditions raised obstacles that could not 
be surmounted. Eirst of all, the pathetic devotion of 
his uncle and aunt. They called him their son ! Then, 
the innate gentleness of his own nature, which shrank 
from the desire to rob them of their new estate, — a 
strange wealth of contentment and resignation. To 
tell them now would be to destroy the only joy left in 
life for them. Again, the curious sense of loyalty to 
Adam Carr! 

He lost no time in looking up John Pay son, to whom 


AFTER THE SERMON 


333 


an explanation was due, and a plea for Mary’s sake* 
Payson heard him through, — a nervous, disconnected 
statement it was, — and considerately assured him that 
he not only understood the situation, but that he would 
not have had Mary do otherwise than she had done. 

“ Tell her, Eric,” he said, “ that I love her more than 
ever. I can wait until she is ready to send for me. 
Brace up, old fellow. I understand.” 

But, though he said it fairly enough, he did not un- 
derstand. He was sorely puzzled. 

No word came from Adam Carr. 

Sunday was at hand. The Saturday Courier had an- 
nounced the programme for the services at the First 
Congregational Church. There was to be a solo in the 
morning by the popular Miss Smith, with flute and ’cello 
obligato! More wonderful still, a ’cello solo during 
the “ collection ” by the famous Professor Parker of 
Boston! In the evening, a song service, with a short 
sermon by the minister, the Rev. Mr. King. 

And all this in the First Congregational Church of 
Corinth! Horace Blagden’s church! 

At half-past ten, Mr. Blagden put on his tall hat, 
took up his gold-headed cane, and announced to the two 
Midthornes that it was time to be off to church. Mrs. 
Blagden was not up to it, so they were leaving her be- 
hind. 

“ The bell hasn’t rung yet. Uncle Horace,” observed 
Eric, who had been waiting for the resounding peals of 
that well-known summoner of the faithful. 

‘‘ Mr. King’s orders, my dear boy,” said Horace as 
calmly as if the silencing of that venerable and never- 
failing bell was the most trivial thing in the world. He 
pondered a moment and then added, with a queer little 
shake of his head : “ Mr. King is really a human sort of 


334 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


a Christian. A sensible one, I might say. Come along, 
please. We can’t afford to be late after what he said 
at the board meeting last week.” 

He seemed nervous and quite anxious to be off. 

“ You see, my dears, there’s a very sick child across 
the street from the church. Abscesses in the ears, I un- 
derstand. They’ve got tan bark along the entire block. 
Last week I attended to having the heavy teaming 
stopped on that part of the street. The child’s mother 
informed Mr. King that the frightful clanging of the 
church bell almost set the little girl wild with pain. 
So,” — here he took a long breath, — “ Mr. King prom- 
ised her that — er, ahem ! — it should not ring until the 
little sufferer was quite fully recovered. Most unusual. 
Most extraordinary. The bell hasn’t missed a service, 
morning or night, in sixty years.” 

“ Good for Mr. King ! ” cried Mary. ‘‘ He is the 
right kind of a Christian. I don’t see why the foolish 
old thing has to ring anyway.” 

Mr. Blagden looked hurt. ‘‘ Really, Mary, that isn’t 
just the proper — ” He caught himself up with one 
of his rare smiles, albeit was rather a shamefaced effort. 
“ Mr. King did not put it in just that way, my dear, 
but he was quite convincing and — er, ahem ! — very 
positive. He said that if the members of the First Con- 
gregational Church did not know the hours for service, it' 
was high time they were learning them. It isn’t neces- 
sary to ring a bell in order to get people to the theatre 
on time, said he, so why bring them to church in that 
way. Really, he was quite emphatic about it. Some- 
how, we agreed with him. I believe it is his intention 
to make note of the tardy ones to-day, for — er, ahem I 
— missionary purposes, as he put it to the board.” 


AFTER THE SERMON 


335 


Mr. Blagden looked at his watch, and accelerated his 
speed quite noticeably. Eric and Mary could scarcely 
credit their senses. Truly, a wonderful thing had hap- 
pened in Corinth. A new gospel had supplanted the 
old. A rock-bound, half-dead Spirituality had been 
shaken into life by a process of enlightenment that was 
positively bewildering. An up-to-date minister, with an 
up-to-date gospel, had completely upset the religious 
calculations of a century and a half, and Corinth was 
surviving the shock ! 

Eric could not help wondering how long it would be 
before one of the great, progressive and covetous metro- 
politan congregations would extend a call to this amaz- 
ing Mr. King — and get him at a vastly increased 
salary, with perhaps a pension for his wife when he be- 
came too old to preach, or it got tired of him and wanted 
a change. 

The new Congregationalism had at last forced its way 
into Corinth. It had taken many years. I venture the 
opinion that the First Congregational Church did more 
toward proving the blindness of faith when it called 
Mr. King than anything that has been done in the name 
or the history of religion. A congregation so set- 
tled and steadfast in its ways could not have accom- 
plished a transition so complete as this except by acci- 
dent. Mr. King was truly an accident, quite as much 
of an accident as the stroke of lightning which never 
strikes twice in the same place. If anyone had told the 
trustees in advance that he was going to tweak tradi- 
tion’s nose until it slipped entirely out of joint, those 
excellent gentlemen, Horace Blagden included, would 
have preserved the tenets of the church so rigorously that 
the name of Mr. Percival King would never have been 


336 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


heard in Corinth. But they took him on faith, and 
they had been taking him on faith ever since, without 
a murmur of dissent. 

He was the modem Congregationalist (God bless 
him !), and as strong as Samson when it came to shatter- 
ing pillars. The old church fell down about their heads, 
without hurting anyone, and a new one went up in its 
place so swiftly that before the congregation knew what 
it was about it was reformed, rejuvenated, humanised. 
He was giving it something to think about, something 
to enjoy, something to grasp. 

Unlike Mr. Presbrey and his sombre predecessors, he 
called a spade a spade, and with that spade he dug a 
very deep grave for bigotry, winsomely engaging a 
whole church-full of unconscious bigots to assist him in 
burying the dead. 

The silencing of the bell! Violins, flutes and ’cellos, 

' — without the brass and cymbals, — in the choir ! Joy- 
ous, inspiring anthems! Twenty minute sermons and 
cheerful texts! Oratory without thirdlles, and fourth- 
lies, and ninthlies! Golf on week days and a genuine 
interest in the Sunday-school nine! Potted plants in 
the vestibule and fresh posies on the reading stand! 
Broiled lobster instead of fried chicken, — when he 
could get it! Man alive! 

And congregations at both services on the Sabbath 
that tried the capacity of the building! And, most 
wonderful of all: if the regular pew-holders were not 
in their seats by five minutes after eleven, the busy 
ushers were instructed to conduct the standing over- 
flow that lined the walls to the cushioned pews of the 
tardy ! 

A long way back in this narrative I said that Mr. 
Presbrey was a good man and that he would bear 


AFTER THE SERMON 


SS7 


watching. The proof is at hand. He has become a 
bookagent. A side-issue, of course. His preparatory 
school for boys was not what you would call self-sus- 
taining. So, if you didn’t have boys to send to him, 
you could do the next best thing by subscribing for 
that enlightening set of books known as ‘‘ The Great 
I Masters of the Pulpit,” twelve volumes, calf or cloth, 
with gilt edges and copper-plate portraits, at two-and- 
a-half or four, just as your fancy for covers ran, five 
dollars down and the balance in weekly installments. 
Your name on the subscription list was always solicited 
because its presence there was an asset not to be despised 
in the effort to introduce the books into all respectable 
and intellectual homes. It was particularly desired 
that you be among those at the top of the list. If 
your name was there, everyone else in town was sure 
to know that the books were well worth possessing. 
No home should be without “ The Great Masters of 
the Pulpit.” You felt rather sorry for Mr. Presbrey, 
so you subscribed — for the two-and-a-half set. He 
was so successful in the placing of these books in Cor- 
inth and nearby villages that, after a month’s trial at 
the work, he felt encouraged to add Dickens and Thack- 
eray and Shakespere to his stock. But not Balzac or 
Gautier. It was much too early for the effort to in- 
troduce those French masters into the homes of the 
Corinthians. The Rev. Mr. King had not been there 
long enough. 

Mr. Blagden led the way down the aisle to the pew 
that once had belonged to his great-grandfather. The 
name in the corner of the seat had never been changed. 
The word “ Blagden ” was there, just as it had been 
ordered by the far-sighted and thrifty ancestor, whose 
penuriousness took in the probability that some future 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


SSS 

Blagden might aspire to different initials; moreover^ 
it was ridiculous to expect that the first-born male in 
each generation would have to be named So-and-So, sim- 
ply because of loyalty to a church-pew. 

It is not the purpose or the desire of the writer 
to devote a chapter to the description of this spring 
morning service in the First Congregational Church of ' 
Corinth. We will merely glance over the congrega- 
tion, absorb a few stray words from the lips of the pas- 
tor, commend the music, and be back on our way to the, 
house on the hill, vaguely satisfied with the new Cor- 
inthian era. 

We find the church filled to overflowing. Not one 
of the old pew-holders is absent. Each and every one 
got there on time without being called by the bell. In 
fact, a goodly number were there ahead of time. There 
was in each breast the ever-impending dread that some 
brash outsider would sneak in and confiscate his seat. 
And it’s a very awkward matter, getting one out of 
your pew after he’s once got into it. You can’t do 
it without words, and the other feUow is quite apt to 
have something to say about it himself. 

Very stiff and erect sat Mr. Blagden, looking neither 
to right nor left, but straight at the fervid, impas- | 
sioned, convincing face of the young minister who had 
wrought so many changes. No man dozed, — never! 
The spell was upon all those within the sound of his t 
voice. In the old days one might have been supported 
in the belief that Mr. Presbrey’s hearers regarded the 
passive mood as the only true channel through which 
to absorb sanctification: hence, they slept. But youn^ 
Mr. King, soulful and forceful, had them in his grip. 
They just couldnH sleep. He was fighting Satan in 
a practical, twentieth century way; not allegorically. 


AFTER THE SERMON 


339 


His sermon on this eventful morning had to do with 

Hell.” He spoke of the modern, up-to-date hell, 
the sort that we see every day of our lives if we take 
the trouble to look about us. It was somewhat of a 
new idea to the people of Corinth. They had come to 
believe that hell was a long way off. Mr. King made 
’ it uncomfortably near for those who listened. 

Here are a few of the surprising things that filtered 
into the ears of the Corinthians and gave them some- 
thing to think about for days. 

“ Christianity is a science, and we’ve got to treat 
it as such. It isn’t a theory. , , , You can’t con- 
quer sin by sneering at it. . . . Everything else 

in the world is going ahead; the church isn’t. . . . 

The Salvation Army and the Y. M. C. A. know how 
to fight. They know where to hit and how to hit. 
. . . You can’t pat the devil on the back all week 

and call him ‘ old chap,’ and then turn around and 
surprise him by trying to thrash him on the Sabbath. 
• . . We have one day of rest in the seven. He 
never takes a day off. ... If you expect to de- 
feat the Black Prince, you’ve got to come out of your 
shells and fight in the open. You’ll have the advantage 
of him there. . . . The world is very large and 

very clever. Fossils and mossbacks have no more 
license for thinking they can fight the world than an 
octogenarian has for thinking he can fight a youth 
of twenty-five. That’s why, my friends, the church 
is going around part of the time with a black eye and 
a grudge. And it is always whining when it gets 
thrashed. ... It only fights the devil on Sunday, 
and then gives him a week to recuperate. And, my 
friends, his Satanic Majesty doesn’t care the snap of 
his finger for all the Sundays we can crowd into Eter- 


540 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


nity. It’s the week days that he’s interested in, . . . 

Eight the devil with love, not bitterness of spirit. He 
can’t find a defence against love. If you try to fight 
him with scorn as the weapon, you’ll get mightily beaten. 
He has too many friends who resent being sneered at, 
— and they’re influential, too. ... I have a great 
deal of respect for the sincere atheist or agnostic. I 
like a man who is sincere. The atheist is never any- 
thing less than he pretends to be. You can’t say as 
much for the great majority of our professed Chris- 
tians. Give me a fair-and-square, upright atheist 
every day in preference to a weak-kneed professing 
Christian who doesn’t stand for anything after he’s 
paid his pew rent and added a half-dollar or so of a 
Sunday to pay for his week’s salvation. . . . The 
atheist is a man ; the wish-washy, half-hearted, sceptical 
Christian isn’t good enough to black his boots. 

You can’t get into heaven by paying fifty cents a 
week on the installment plan. Why, the way things 
go in these days, it costs a great deal more than that 
to get into the other place. ... A man who 
spends a thousand dollars a week having a ‘ devil of 
a time,’ my friends, can’t balance his account with 
God for fifty cents or a dollar. . . . Erock coats 

and black ties don’t make Christians of you. Overalls 
and jumpers will do quite as well. No matter which 
you wear, you will have to lay them aside when you 
start forth to face your Maker. . . . You may 

come to this church in your every-day, business suits 
if you choose. As a matter of fact, I believe it to 
be easier to preach salvation to a man in his grey sack 
suit than it is to try to get at him when he’s got 
on his black regimentals. ... I wear this long 
black coat because it is, in a sense, the official robe of 


AFTER THE SERMON 


341 


my great office. I respect it, but it doesn’t make a 
Christian of me any more than it makes one of the 
undertaker. I witnessed a negro minstrel parade not 
long ago. All told, there were more than forty Prince 
Albert coats in that procession. But those fellows 
didn’t look like preachers. So, you see, it isn’t a ques- 
tion of clothes. ... I believe we’d all feel better 
for it if we stuck a small, fragrant nosegay in the 
iapels of our coats next Sunday, just to prove to our- 
selves that church-going is a joyous, not a grim under- 
taking. ... I do not like to see a man singing 
Hallelujah with a long and a doleful face. Sing it 
gladly! That’s what it means.” 

At the conclusion of the twenty-five minute sermon, 
and while the congregation was fairly shouting the 
Tare old hymn, Eric drew a long breath and looked 
about him as if suddenly aroused from a sort of stupor. 
He had listened in frank astonishment during the first 
part of the sermon ; toward the end he allowed himself 
to be carried away by the earnestness of the young min- 
ister. He was disappointed when the extraordinary 
discourse came to an end. He wanted more. Here 
was a man with a gospel so broad, and convincing, and 
brave that his heart warmed toward him at once. This 
was not the stem gospel that Mr. Presbrey had fairly 
jammed down his throat in the old days. He had the 
feeling that he was going to like Mr. King as a man, 
as a friend, as a brother. It would be quite impossible 
to ever look upon him as a relentless arbiter who prodded 
one with texts and dogmas until the soul sickened. 
No; this man’s religion smiled: he would have a warm 
hand-clasp. 

“ I’ll bet he’s a fine chap,” whispered Eric in Mary’s 
ear. She nodded her head, but frowned slightly in the 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


S4!2 

fear that his very worldly estimate of the minister might 
have reached the ears of Mr. Blagden. 

Out of the corners of their eyes they glanced at 
their uncle’s face. It was beaming; it was rapt. 

“ Wonders have been performed,” murmured Eric. 
Then, this quaint thought found expression in a whis- ; 
pered: “You can teach an old dog new tricks, after 
all.” 

An old habit moved him. His gaze wandered, as it 
had done on countless Sundays in other times, to the 
pew in which Joan Bright and her father always sat. 

At the same instant, one of the occupants of that pew 
turned to look directly into his eyes. 

Joan Bright was there. For one long, hazy minute 
they looked at each other. Then a slow, even curious 
smile crept into her face. She nodded her head. He 
was too amazed, too dazed to respond to her greeting 
at once. She looked away before he could shake off 
the spell of a possible illusion. 

Strangely enough, his interest in the service was 
gone. During the prayer and the benediction he did 
not take his eyes from the half-averted, serene face of 
the girl across the church. It was not until the service 
came to a close that his mind grasped the fact that she ^ 
stood beside a tall, handsome young man, who held the 
hymn-book with her, while Judge Bright stood detached 
and apart. 

With the final “ amen,” he hurriedly left the seat, 
after a quick apology to his uncle, and elbowed his 
way through the crowd, bent on reaching the door ahead 
of her. 

If he had paused to look at Mary, he would have 
seen the wave of red that spread over her cheek, and 


AFTER THE SERMON 


343 


the curious narrowing of her eyes. She had been aware 
of Joan’s presence from the moment that young woman 
entered the church. 

Just as he reached the vestibule, with craning neck 
and eager eyes, a hand was laid on his arm. 

“ She came out of the other door, Eric, to avoid the 
crowd, I fancy,” said the owner of the hand. “ She’s 
getting into young Sallonsby’s automobile now. Funny 
how times have changed. People used to think it wrong 
to go to church in a carriage when I was a — ” 

“ So it’s you, is it.? ” demanded Eric harshly. 

Joan was entering the big red car at the curb. She 
did not look back. His eyes were upon her. He had 
not glanced at the man who volunteered the informa- 
tion. He knew without looking. 

“ Yes,” said Adam Carr. Then he added whimsi- 
cally : ‘‘ It’s always me. Come along with me. Don’t 

wait for your uncle. I have news for you.” 

Eric, grievously disturbed by Joan’s behavior, suf- 
fered himself to be led down the steps. At the bottom, 
he turned to his old friend with a sudden anger that 
must have attracted the attention of those near at hand. 

“ I suppose you’ve had news that he died, just as you 
said he would.” 

Adam did not respond to the angry sarcasm until 
they were clear of the crowd. 

No,” he said. “ I have come to notify your uncle 
that I’ve given up the chase.” 

“ By heaven, it’s high time ! ” cried Eric. 

“And to admit that I’ve been on the wrong track 
all the time. The fellow I’ve been chasing all these 
years turns out not to be Chetwynd at all.” 

Eric stared. “ What is your game now ? ” 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


344 ! 

“ Simply this. I’m going to let you shoulder the 
whole business. I know nothing whatever about the 
affair on the bridge or what transpired afterward.” 

“ You mean that you are going to let me get out of it 
as best I can.? ” cried Eric, amazed. 

“ Let us cross the street. Too crowded on this side. 
Fine preacher, that. He’s making Christians just as 
they make sardines — I mean, he’s packing ’em in the 
same way.” 

Once across the street, he resumed the original theme. 

My boy, I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s best 
for you to tell your uncle that you killed Chetwynd. 
No court of justice can convict you of the crime, how- 
ever. The corpus delicti must be established. In other 
words, the state is obliged to produce the body of the 
victim in order to prove that he is truly and legally 
deceased. There must be something besides verbal tes- 
timony to show that the man is dead. Technicalities 
are great life-savers. I once knew of a case in Chicago 
where a man was sent up for life for murdering his 
wife. The state was required to prove the corpus de- 
licti, It produced one of the metatarsal bones and 
said it was a part of the dead woman’s corporeal body, 
although some of the experts declared it to be from 
the person of a pig. But the jury decided it was a 
part of the woman, and convicted the prisoner. If it 
hadn’t been for that tiny bone he would have gone 
scot-free. So, in your case, there’s got to be something 
to show that Chetwynd is really dead.” 

‘‘ But I will swear that I killed him,” said Eric 
sharply. 

“ You wouldn’t have anything to say about it,” said 
Adam Carr cheerfully. “ Your lawyer would see to 
that. He would demand the exhibits, from a to Zy 


AFTER THE SERMON 


345 


among them Chetwynd or a part of him. What’s a 
lawyer for if not to attend to such things as that.? ” 

“ Is that what you came here to tell me .? ” demanded 
Eric. 

‘‘ That, and this : I can’t afford to be dragged into 
this thing. It means ruin, degradation. I merely ask 
you to assume the entire responsibility. Leave me out 
of it altogether. No one need be the wiser.” 

“ I see,” said Eric thoughtfully. They walked along 
for some distance in silence. Adam was watching his 
friend out of the corner of his eye. 

At the corner below, Eric drew up sharply. 

‘‘ You’re justified in asking this of me, Mr. Adam,” 
he said, knitting his brows. ‘‘ You have stood by me, 
right or wrong. I am not so ungrateful that I will 
drag you down, — ruin you, as you say. I won’t say 
that I condone or approve the uses to which you have 
put this unhappy business but that is neither here nor 
there. If you ask it of me, I will tell my story without 
connecting you with it in any way whatsoever. Here’s 
my hand on it. I’ve tried to dislike you, but I find that 
I can’t.” 

Adam Carr’s face glowed. He uttered a little cry 
of relief as he clasped the young man’s hand. 

“ That’s all I wanted, my lad,” he said briskly. “ I 
wanted to see if you were true blue, so far as your 
friends are concerned. I didn’t believe you could go 
back on me, after you saw what it meant to me. You 
would have told long ago but for me. Perhaps you 
don’t realise it, but you would have told everything 
the other day if you hadn’t felt that it would be doing 
me a grave injustice. Well, I know it if you don’t. 
We’ve stood together all these years, my boy, and we’ll 
stand together now. You’ve got something to confess 


346 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


to Horace, and so have 1. My crime is ten thousand 
times darker than yours. It isn’t conscience that’s 
working on me, but just plain fatigue. I’m sick and 
tired of playing with Horace. I don’t sleep of nights. 
It’s got on my nerves. So, if you don’t mind, we’ll 
face him together — this afternoon.” 

Eric was trembling all over. “ Do you really mean 
it, Mr. Adam ? ” he cried. 

‘‘ I do. And we’ll not put off till to-morrow what 
we can do to-day.” 

In a maze of wonder, Eric walked on beside this 
strange, amazing man. The thought never entered 
his head that Adam Carr, the most astute and calcu- 
lating of men, might have conceived the idea that his 
own safety lay in the powerful effect Eric’s candour 
would have on Horace Blagden. This is not saying 
that Carr secretly cherished a conviction of that sort, 
but that he was clever enough to profit by the perfectly 
obvious conclusion. 

‘‘ And by the way,” said Adam, with a speculative 
chuckle, “ if I’m any judge of human nature, — and 
I profess to be, — I think we’ll find Miss Bright on the 
right side of the fence when she sees you are in trouble. 
It’s a way women have,” 


CHAPTER XIX 


TRUTHS AND LIES 

On the church steps, Mr. Blagden looked here and there 
in quest of his nephew. He had stopped inside to shake 
the hand of the engaging young minister, and to com- 
pare notes with half-a-dozen rock-ribbed deacons* 
Eric and Adam Carr were far on their way down the 
street when he emerged with Mary. 

She had seen the two men, however, and was filled 
with misgivings. She fell into the natural error of 
suspecting that her brother had hastened away to meet 
Adam Carr, whereas her first thoughts attributed his 
hasty departure to a desire to accost Joan Bright. 

Her heart rankled. Joan had looked past her during 
service without so much as the pretence of smile or nod. 
Mary’s sensitive, high-strung nature rebelled against 
this exhibition of intolerance on the part of her old- 
time friend and playmate. While Eric was squirming 
in the seat, eager to be off, Mary was resentfully dig- 
ging up the memory of Joan’s first sign of coldness and 
disfavour, which was followed later on by the cut di- 
rect. It all came about after an all-night automobile 
trip, she recalled, when she had taken an up-state trip 
in company with Jack Payson and a couple of friends 
from New York. It was of no consequence to the 
gossips, who told the tale, that Mr. and Mrs. Bates were 
in the party. What hurt Mary most, even though she 
was loth to admit it to herself, was the conviction that, 
next to Eric and Payson, she still loved Joan Bright 
better than anyone else in the world. Therefore, she was 
347 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


348 

privileged to hate her with particular unreasonableness. 

“ Where is Eric, m j dear ? ” asked her uncle, peering 
about in all directions. 

She could not conceal her nervousness. ‘‘ I think he 
hurried out to see Joan Bright. She’s back from the 
South, Uncle.” 

I “ Indeed. She wasn’t expected so soon. Why did 
she change her plans so hastily ? ” 

“ I’m sure I don’t know.” 

“ Haven’t you — ” 

“No, I haven’t seen her,” interrupted Mary, an- 
swering the perfectly obvious question before it could be 
uttered. 

Mr. Blagden hemmed rather awkwardly. “ Proba- 
bly came in last night,” he vouchsafed. “ I daresay 
Eric is walking home with her. We shan’t see him until 
— Ah, how do you do, Presbrey. Splendid sermon, 
wasn’t it? Good morning, Julia.” 

The Presbreys, transversing the opposite way, ac- 
knowledged the greeting with a most ceremonious bow. 
It did not occur to them to inform Mr. Blagden that 
they had listened to the sermon in the Second Congrega- 
tional Church. 

“ A most admirable discourse,” said Mr. Presbrey 
blandly. 

“ Scholarly,” said his wife, as she bestowed her 
sweetest smile on Mary. “ So you are back, are you, 
my dear? ” 

“ Yes, Mrs. Presbrey,” said Mary, also smiling 
sweetly. 

Then their ways diverged. 

A little later, Mary awoke to the fact that her uncle 
was speaking, not so much to her as to the world in 
general. 


TRUTHS AND LIES 


M9 

“ Yes, I am sorry for Presbrey. I suppose he real- 
ises what an old fogy he was toward the end. Still he 
was — I should say he is a good Christ-like man. He 
can’t have any bitterness of heart, although I daresay 
he — er, ahem! deplores the fact that this new broom 
is sweeping so thoroughly. Dear me, he never saw a 
congregation so vast as — but what am I saying.? Yes,, 
yes, I am sorry for Presbrey. I don’t mind saying to 
you, Mary, that he has been on my conscience not a 
little during the past few months. I can’t help feeling 
that I took a rather unfair advantage of him at the 
time of — ” 

“Nonsense! ” broke in Mary. “It was a fair fight 
between you. Uncle Horace.” 

“ A fair fight, my dear.? Fight? ” said Mr. Blagden, 
with a stare. 

“ And he began it,” she added succinctly. 

Mr. Blagden cleared his throat. “ Be that as it may,” 
he said hastily, “ I feel that I owe him some form of 
reparation. I have quite fully decided to put him in 
charge of the new library.” 

Eric and Adam had turned a distant comer, Mary 
breathed freely again. 

“ The new library .? ” she repeated. 

Horace affected a dry chuckle. “You’ll see it all 
in to-morrow’s Courier , he said. “ Eric’s to build it. 
The handsomest structure outside of Boston, if I do 
say it.” 

“ I don’t know what you are talking about. Uncle 
Horace.” 

“ Of course you don’t. I am to talk it over with 
Eric in the morning. The Courier is now in full pos- 
session of the details.” 

The eager, excited questions that rose to her lips- 


S50 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


were left unuttered. John Pay son approached from 
the opposite direction. Mary’s heart gave a great, 
wild throb, and then seemed to stop beating entirely. 
Her face was very pale. 

Payson did not pause, but went by with a warm smile 
^ for her and a polite bow for Horace Blagden. The 
smile she gave in return was a wavering, pathetic effort 
that went straight to his heart. He glanced back over 
his shoulder, and was disappointed because she continued 
to look rigidly ahead instead of turning as he had done. 

“Wasn’t that young Payson.^” demanded Horace, 
his jaw setting hard. 

“ Yes, Uncle Horace,” she replied in a low voice. 

Silence fell between them, a chill silence that voiced 
their thoughts as plainly as spoken words. She cast 
-a covert look at the stern face of her uncle. A flush 
was in his cheek. A moment later, he turned his head 
slightly for a brief glance at the girl’s profile. Her 
eyes were lowered. She was staring miserably at the 
brick sidewalk which they traversed so evenly, so 
steadily. 

Horace’s lips seemed to tighten. The veins in his 
thin grey temples stood out like cords. Suddenly he 
relaxed ; his stiff shoulders sagged ; a queer smile forced 
its way out of the hard, set lines about his mouth, and 
his eyes grew wistful. His lips parted twice in the 
effort to utter words that came up from his heart, 
words he hated, yet longed to utter, for he knew they 
would give happiness to her. Something tightened in 
his throat. He cast an involuntary glance over his 
shoulder. A shadow crossed his face, dispelled an in- 
stant later by a conquering smile. 

“ Mary, my child,” he said gently, “ I think, if you 
-don’t mind, I will drop in at Mr. Briscoe’s for a few: 


TRUTHS AND LIES 


351 


minutes. He is down with rheumatism. 1 — BuV 
wait; I will be perfectly frank with you. John Pay- 
son is standing at the corner back there, looking at you 
as if — well, I fancy if I were to efface myself, he 
would not be long in taking my place at your side. I 
believe I’ll make the experiment.” 

Mary’s wonder changed to joy. Her face was sud- 
denly as radiant as the sunshine which fell about them. 

“ Why, — why, Uncle Horace,” she began breath- 
lessly. 

He laid his hand on the gate leading to the rheu- 
matic Mr. Briscoe’s lawn. 

“ Try the experiment yourself, my dear,” he said 
with a smile. “ I will stroll home alone, after I’ve 
cheered poor old Briscoe up a bit.” 

She stood at the gate, watching his rather swift prog- 
ress up the gravel walk. 

“ I wonder — ” she murmured, half aloud, and then 
turned her eager face in the direction of the corner 
above. She forgot Eric and Adam Carr and the sink- 
ing feeling she had experienced on seeing them together 
not five minutes before. There is something immeas- 
urably selfish in young love. 

Jack Payson came striding toward her. Perhaps, 
from a window in the Briscoe house, Horace saw them 
meet and move off together, down the street. 

An hour later, she said good-bye to her lover at the 
gate and hurried up the walk toward the suddenly at- 
tractive portals of “ The Giant’s Castle.” There was 
a gladness, a brightness in her eyes; a song in her 
heart. Somehow the world was brighter, the sun was 
warmer, the buds on the trees were greener than they 
had ever been before. She tripped up the steps and 
fairly danced across the porch. There was in her mind 


S5^ 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


a great resolve to do something she had never done be- 
fore: to put her arms about her uncle’s neck and kiss 
him, not once, but many times. 

She paused for a moment just outside the library 
door, to compose herself. As she stood there, breath- 
ing quickly, the curious stillness she had noticed on 
entering the house became more pronounced. She re- 
called, with a shudder, having been in a house once 
where a dead woman was lying upstairs in the winding 
sheet. The utter stillness of that well-remembered 
house was not unlike this that now closed in about her, 
smothering the joy that so lately radiated from her 
warm, throbbing heart. 

Half in fear, she laid her hand on the knob of the 
library door. A moment passed before she turned it. 
The sense of impending disaster increased with each 
second of delay. What had happened? Who in the 
house was dead? 

The door opened quietly, slowly, and she looked into 
the partially darkened room. No voice called out a 
welcome to her. 

The shade in the big front window was high; that 
end of the room was flooded with sunlight. Her eyes 
' were slow to take in the details of the picture that lay 
before her. So immovable, so still were the four fig- 
ures that made up the tableau that she could think of 
them only as statues. 

First, and naturally, her gaze fell upon the square, 
thick-set figure in the window. Adam Carr was stand- 
ing there, his back to the room, his hands clasped be- 
hind him, staring at the porch through the white lace 
curtains. It was as if he had turned his back upon a 
particularly harrowing scene. 

Eric leaned against the mantelpiece, his chin low- 


TRUTHS AND LIES 


35S 


ered, his arms folded across his breast, — the picture of 
utter dejection. On the sofa before him sat his uncle 
and aunt, the former stiffly upright and tense, the latter 
drooping limply against him, her hands covering her 
eyes. 

It was all over. Eric had confessed! The blow had 
fallen. 

After what seemed an interminable length of time, 
her brother lifted his eyes and saw her standing there, 
stunned, irresolute. He stared for a moment with 
haggard eyes, and then let his arms drop limply to 
his side. The act was in itself an acknowledgment 
of potent despair. Then, with a movement of his 
head, he directed her to attend the stricken pair on 
the sofa. 

As she glided across the room, Adam Carr turned 
from the window and swiftly left the room, without so 
much as a glance at the four persons who were left 
to play out the drama. With deliberate intent, he 
banged the library door in closing it. The shock served 
its purpose. It broke the spell. 

With infinite gentleness, Mary drew Mrs. Blagden’s 
stiff, cold hands away from her face and held them close 
to her own warm, heaving breast. Mrs. Blagden stared 
blankly, even wonderingly at the face of the girl. The 
white, drawn lips moved in a voiceless question. 

They know everything,” came in hoarse tones from , 
Eric. 

The tears sprang to Mary’s eyes. Through the mist 
that blinded them, they asked the great, important ques- 
tion of him. 

“ How can I ask them to forgive me.? ” he groaned, 
and that was his answer to the question that lay in her 
eyes. 


354j 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


Mrs. Blagden’s lips parted. A dead, lifeless voice 
littered these words : 

“ Let me be alone with you, Horace. Let me die with 
your arms about me.” 

Then it was that Horace relaxed. His strong gaze 
wavered. A great shudder ran over his frame. 

“ There is nothing more to be said,” fell clearly, 
mechanically from his lips. His eyes were upon the 
white face of his nephew. “We know all there is to 
know. It is all over. The truth at last.” His voice 
rose to a sort of wail. “I — I can’t understand why 
you have allowed us to suffer all these years, Eric, when 
one word from you would have ended our misery, our 
uncertainty, our — our endless waiting. See ! See 
what it has cost us ! ” 

“God forgive me!” groaned Eric, burying his face 
in the arm that now rested on the mantel. 

With an effort, Horace struggled to his feet. Slowly 
he crossed over to the young man’s side, towering above 
the bent, shaking figure. After a moment’s hesitation, 
he laid his hand on Eric’s shoulder. His nephew 
cringed. 

“ Give me time,” he began, but went back to correct 
himself, revealing the new phase that marked his manner 
in these days. “ Give iis time, Eric. It is hard to 
take all this in at once. We must work it out for our- 
selves and by ourselves. Just your aunt and 1. When 
the shock has worn off.” He was speaking jerkily, 
brokenly, as if the effort to control himself was trying 
his every power. “We do not want to be harsh, or 
unjust, Eric. We shall seek — ” 

Eric looked up, amazed. “Harsh? Unjust?” he 
said bitterly. “ Why, I’ve forfeited all claim to — 


TRUTHS AND LIES 


355 


“ Hush, my boy,” said Mr. Blagden. “ Give us 
time, — give us time.” 

Mary, in the intensity of a great emotion, cried out 
shrilly : ‘‘ He didn’t mean to — to kill him. Uncle.. 

You know he did not mean — ” 

Mrs. Blagden shook herself free and turned on the 
girl. There was a wild, insane glare in her eyes. 

“ He threatened Chetwynd a hundred times,” she said 
harshly. “ A hundred times ! He hated him ! He 
wanted to kill him ! ” 

“ My dear, my dear ! ” pleaded Horace. Calm 
yourself. Let us judge this poor boy as God will judge 
him. Remember, we called him our son but yesterday.” 

“ I cannot — I cannot forgive,” moaned his wife^ 
falling back limply. “ Don’t touch me — now ! ” she 
cried out to the girl, who would have caught her in her 
arms. Mary shrank back, repulsed. 

A fuU minute passed, fraught with tragic misery* 
Eric was the first to speak. 

“ I have told you everything. Adam Carr has sup- 
ported my story. If you think he would lie to save me 
or himself — ” 

“ No,” said Horace grimly, Adam Carr would not 
lie. He hates me too well to lie to me. The truth 
always hurts worse than a lie, and he knows it. I be- 
lieve you, Eric. You have never been anything but 
honest. It isn’t that. It’s the other thing. The long^ 
years we’ve been allowed to suffer.” 

“ You would have sent me to the gallows if you had 
known all this five years ago,” said Eric drearily. 
“Everything was diflPerent five years ago. You were 
different. You would have had no mercy, no pity in 
those days.” 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


S56 

“ You think I’ve changed? You were not afraid to 
risk confession to-day. Is that it? ” 

“ No, no,” cried Eric hastily. “ I don’t mean that. 
But I was afraid at the time. Afterwards it was too 
late. I — but I’ve said all this before. Why go over 
it again. I am the confessed slayer of your son, my 
own cousin. Now I ask to be given a fair trial, a just 
hearing. That’s all.” 

Mr. Blagden said nothing for a few moments. He 
was studying the young man’s face. 

You came out with the truth because you were 
sorry for us,” he said at last. “ Because you wanted to 
end our suffering and suspense?” 

“ Yes,” said Eric. “ I could have gone forever with- 
out telling if I had so desired.” 

‘‘ And you were not afraid that some day Adam Carr 
would betray you? You have never felt that he had a 
weapon to hold over you and to strike if he saw fit, to 
suit purposes of his own? ” 

Eric hesitated. “ No, I’ve never really been afraid 
of Adam Carr. If I had been afraid of him I should 
never have come to you with the truth. He did hold it 
over my head, but, — well, here I am, sir. I was not 
afraid of him.” 

‘‘ It had to do with Mary and John Payson? ” 

Yes. I will be frank.” 

‘‘ You told us the truth because you were sorry for 
us — because — His voice faltered. “ Because you 
loved us after all and could not let it go on any 
longer? ” 

“ Yes.” 

Conscience had nothing to do with it? The fear 
of God was not in your heart? ” 


TRUTHS AND LIES 


35T 


Eric did not hesitate. “ No. My conscience, so far- 
as the death of Chetwynd is concerned, is clear. I had 
no fear of God, for God was my witness.” 

Mr. Blagden again laid his hand on his nephew’s- 
shoulder. 

‘‘ Is it love or pity ” he asked, his voice shaking. 

Eric was honest. He looked squarely into his uncle’s 
eyes. 

‘‘ I don’t know, sir. I can’t explain. I used to hate- 
you and Aunt Rena. I do not hate you now. Some- 
how, I have changed.” 

“ Somehow, we have changed,” said Horace, correct- 
ing him. “We should not have expected you to love 
us, when, God forgive me for saying it, — when our own 
son did not love us. Do not interrupt. If he had 
loved us he would not be where he is to-day. My boy, 
I will not say to you now that I forgive you. It is 
not yet in my heart to do so. I must have it all out 
with myself, with God as my counsellor. You took the 
life of my son. You — Rena, I beg of you ! ” 

Mrs. Blagden had risen, and stood wavering before 
the two men, on the verge of utter collapse. She put 
out her hand and touched her husband’s arm. 

“ I want to be alone with you, Horace. Will you ; 
come ” she said dully. 

“ Yes, yes,” he cried, putting his arm around her 
shoulders. “We will go, we will go, my dear.” 

“ Wait,” she said. Then she turned directly to Eric. 

Eric, you should not have let your uncle suffer all 
these years. It was cruel of you to — ” 

“ Come, come, my dear,” broke in Mr. Blagden, un- 
steadily. “ You were the great sufferer. I — I wa& 
going about among men all the time. You sat here 


658 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


^lone and — my God ! How long the years have been ! 
My dear, my dear ! How long we have waited together, 
jou and I ! ” 

He broke down completely. With the frail form 
of his wife clasped tightly to his breast, he lowered 
his head until his face was buried in the silken white 
‘ hair. 

Eric’s lips moved in a mute appeal; his hands went 
out toward them and then fell to his sides. With 
B. dry, racking sob in his throat, he turned away, 
staggering blindly toward the window. Mary came up 
with him quickly. She slipped her arm about his 
shoulders and whispered words of comfort and hope. 

The shuffling of unsteady, dragging feet drew their 
visual attention once more to the pair at the other end 
of the room. Mr. Blagden had started to leave the li- 
brary ; he was making his way toward the door with the 
bent figure of his wife at his side, his arm about her 
waist for support. The old man’s head was held high 
and his eyes were set. 

Eric sprang forward to assist him, but was waved 
aside. Humbly the young man walked before them 
A and opened the door for them to pass out into the 
hall. 

“ I can almost see the struggle on the bridge,” said 
Horace, addressing no one in particular. “ It appears 
to me as if in a vision. I can see Chetwynd hurling the 
stone at Eric, and the savage attack that came after. I 
can hear the things he was saying of Mary, — those 
brutal, vicious things. The fight was fair. God called 
my boy to the judgment bar. It was his time to go. 
It was not an accident. It was God’s will. No human 
agency could have checked the will of God — ” 


TRUTHS AND LIES 359* 

A man was standing near the hat-rack in the halL 
Eric stared, unbelieving. 

Mr. Blagden’s gaze rested for a moment on the mo~ 
tionless figure. Then his long, thin arm was raised;, 
a quivering hand pointed toward the door leading to the^ 
porch. 

‘‘ Leave my house ! ” 

Adam Carr did not move. “ I just wanted to say — 
he began. 

« Go!” 

“ I can’t go until I have said — ” 

‘‘ Go, I say ! ” Horace’s voice shook with suppressed 
fury. 

— until I have said that I am sorry to have been 
the cause of so much anguish to your wife, toward 
whom I have had no feeling,” persisted Adam patiently, 
I am sorry for what I’ve done to her. My grudge 
was against you.” 

“ Hard as flint,” fell from Horace’s twisted lips. 

‘‘ To strike fire from flint,” was the other’s sharp re~ 
tort. 

“ You have not found me so hard as you suspected,’^ 
said Horace slowly. “ Not hard enough to give out 
fire when you strike in these days.” 

“ Nor am I so hard, Horace Blagden,” said Adam,, 
for the first time revealing a sign of nervousness. 
“ Well, I’ll go now. If you need me, Eric, I’ll be 
ready. A black Sunday.” 

“ You have failed there,” cried Horace, a thrill in his 
voice almost of triumph. “ It is a bright Sunday. We 
see the light for the first time in years. Go, sir. Eric 
will not need you. We shall ask no favours of you„ 
Adam Carr.” 


560 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


Carr allowed his gaze to rest on the face of Mrs. 
Blagden for an instant. She was regarding him with 
unspeakable loathing in her eyes ; the crushed, beaten 
spirit was answering the call of pride. He opened his 
lips to speak his last word to her, met the look in her 
eyes, bowed awkwardly, and strode from the house with- 
out uttering another syllable. 

‘‘ I cannot turn the other cheek to him, — I cannot,” 
grated Horace. “ ‘ Love your enemy as yourself ! ^ 
Bah ! Puerile nonsense ! ” 

Brother and sister watched them ascend the stairs and 
return down the hall. A moment later a door above was 
gently closed. 

“Did you hear what he said?” asked Mary, in a 
half-whisper. “ He said ‘ Eric will not need you ! ’ Oh, 
Errie, Errie, he means to be kind, he means to be just.” 

Eric groaned. “Kind! Just! After what I’ve 
done for him.” 

She spoke eagerly. “ He realises that he has not 
-always been kind or just to you. He — ” 

“ See here, Mary, you don’t know all that happened 
in there before you came. He cursed me at first. He 
called me a murderer. He laughed when I said that I 
w^as ready and willing to give myself up to the law. 
He said there was no law that could punish me suffi- 
ciently. The change of front came after all this. Oh, I 
know how he feels — how he feels in his heart. He — ” 

“ That was madness, fury,” she cried. “ He couldn’t 
help it. He was beside himself. Now he is beginning 
to see clearly. He is a fair man.” 

“ Just the same, I told him I was going to give my- 
self up to the law and stand trial. I — ” 

She cried out piteously. “You must not do that! 
You shall not!” 


TRUTHS AND LIES 


S61 


It isn’t for Uncle Horace alone to acquit me of 
manslaughter. That’s what Adam says the charge will 
be. The court must do it. And, listen: if I wait for 
Uncle Horace to file the affidavit against me, if I wait 
for him to bring me into court, it will never come to 
pass. He won’t do it. It will be his turn to punish 
me. He will sit back and let the charge hang over me 
for years, just as I have done by him in a different way. 
Oh, I know him! He doesn’t forgive so readily. He 
has Adam Carr and me just where he wants us. And 
lie'll he content to let us wait, just as he has waited," 

“ I am sure you are wrong. He will do one of two 
things. He will bring charges against you, or he will 
openly exonerate you. He will issue a statement, mark 
my words.” 

‘‘ Besides,” went on Eric, knitting his brows in 
thought, “ if I want to be brought to trial and legally 
acquitted of crime, I must not put him in the false po- 
sition of complaining against me if he really means to 
acquit me in his own mind and heart. I must do it all 
myself. He may not aid in the prosecution, there is 
that much to be said. But if I don’t give myself up, 
the state’s attorney will force him to take action. It’s 
got to come, so I might as well shoulder the whole of it 
and let Uncle Horace out of an unpleasant job.” 

Her protests were of no avail. He announced his in- 
tention to deliver himself up to the sheriff the next 
morning. 

“ It’s a bailable offence,” he said. ‘‘ Adam Carr 
says I will not have to go to gaol if I have a bondsman 
ready. I am sure I will have no difficulty in getting — ’* 

‘‘What will Joan say when she hears of all this?” 
cried the unhappy girl, falling back on resources she 
would have despised an hour ago. 


S62 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


He closed his eyes^ as if in pain. I wonder if what 
Adam said will turn out to be true.” 

The remark would have puzzled her at another time. 
Now she passed it over without comment. A new: 
thought had occurred to her. 

“ You must go to Jack. Tell everything to him. 
{ He will help you. He is strong and — ” 

“ I could have told him yesterday,” he said, “ but 
not to-day. It’s too late now.” 

Martha, the life-long servant in the house, was com- 
ing down the stairs. 

‘‘ Dinner’s been waiting nearly an hour. Miss Mary,’^ 
she said peevishly. “ Everything’s spoilt, and it’s Sun- 
day, too. I knocked on their door twice, but Mr. 
Horace says, without opening, to never mind, they won’t 
be down, but for you young folks to go on eating. Do 
burry. Belinda’s mad as she c’n be. I don’t blame 
her either. It’s terrible for a cook — and an Irish cook 
at that — to be — Why, Mr. Eric, you surely can’t be 
going out now ! ” 

Eric had grabbed up his hat, — an old slouch hat in- 
stead of the tall silk one he had worn to church, — and 
was striding toward the porch. 

‘‘ I can’t eat anything, — I’m not hungry,” he stam- 
mered distractedly. “ I’m going out for a while, Mary* 
Stay around close, please, and see that — that every- 
' thing’s all right upstairs.” 

‘‘ Ain’t nobody going to eat — ” began Martha, al- 
most in a state of collapse. 

He was flying down the steps and across the lawn, 
leaving Mary in the doorway looking after him with 
troubled, uneasy eyes. She saw him vault the wall and 
make off in the direction of Jabez Carr’s cottage. After 
a moment she turned to Martha. 



“He cursed me at first. He called me a murderer.” 
(Page 360) 



Ir 


■■4 

I 


1 


, 

I i 





TRUTHS AND LIES 


86S 


“ I shan’t disappoint you, Martha. Pm hungry. 
Come along.” 

That was always the way with Mary. She was a 
philosopher. She was content to leave everything to 
Providence — or luck ? Meanwhile, she was hungry. 

Her brother made straight for old Jabe’s cottage. 
Somehow, he felt in need of an old friend — one who 
could lie to him joyously. He suddenly was longing 
for the vainglorious lies that had charmed his boyhood 
fancy, even though he knew them to be lies. He wanted 
to hear something beside the truth. The truth was an 
ugly thing — a very ugly thing. Why do people ever 
tell the truth His soul hungered for lies, — the gay, 
delightful lies that old Jabe could tell. Harmless lies, 
they could hurt no one, not even the teller of them. 

Uncle Jabe was smoking his pipe on the doorstep, 
and gently but quite audibly berating a squirrel which re- 
fused to come to eat out of his hand, a most insulting 
thing for a squirrel to do, if one could judge by the 
scornful remarks of the gate-keeper. 

“ Hello ! ” he called out in his cracked voice to Eric 
as the young man unlatched the gate. Somewhat sum- 
marily, he cast a handful of peanuts at the very head 
of the astonished squirrel, and hobbled over to meet his 
visitor. “ Dang little fool of an idiot,” he complained, 
as a final opinion of the scurrying quadruped. “ Starve, 
if you want to.” This in the face of thoughtless 
prodigality. ‘‘Well, well, Eric, Pm glad to see you. 
Where you been keepin’ yourself ? ” 

Eric wrung the gnarled old paw. Presently they 
were sitting side by side on the bench, leaning back 
against the wall of the cottage. 

“ Uncle Jabe, I wish you’d tell me that story again 
of the fight you had with the pirates who held Lady 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


Imogen in captivity. That was the very best thing you 
ever did. Tell it once more.” 

Jabez scratched his head, blinking his faded little 
eyes in considerable surprise and embarrassment. He 
coughed rather dismally. “I — I can’t jest exactly 
place that — Oh, yes, I know the one. But you see, 
Eric, that was the most gosh-all-whacking lie of all.” 

“ Never mind. That’s just why I want to hear it. 
Go on, please.” 

The ancient regarded him speculatively. “ You are 
jest like a teeny little kid. They’re always askin’ you 
to tell the same story over and over ag’in.” 

I’m kind of lonesome, just for one of your whack-* 
ingest ones. Uncle Jabe,” said Eric, rather plaintively, 
“ Don’t tell me a true one.” 

“ By ginger, I ain’t got any true ones,” exclaimed 
Jabez, very truthfully. Leastwise, I can’t remember 
the true ones. My memory ain’t what it used to be^ 
Come to that, I’m danged if I believe I can recollect the 
lies either. It’s powerful unhandy to have to remem- 
ber what’s lies and what ain’t.” 

“ But the one about Lady Imogen was a fine one.” 

Jabez was racking his brain. “ It must ha’ been,” 
he mused sadly. “ That’s why it’s slipped my mind. 
Who was she? I mean, this here Lady Imogen you’re 
talkin’ about.” 

The daughter of the Earl of Gaystone,” supplied 
the grown-up child. 

Um,” said Jabez uncomfortably. ‘‘ She couldn’t 
ha’ been. There never was a Earl of Gaystone. Say, 
see that squirrel over yander? The blamed little — ” 

Tell another one, if you can’t remember that one,” 
Eric broke in. “ I’m actually homesick for one of your 


TRUTHS AND LIES 


365 


good old tales. I want to go back to the old days. 
Uncle Jabe.” 

“ Somethin’ gone wrong, my lad? ” 

“ Yes,” said Eric, leaning his head against the wall 
and staring up at the tree-tops. 

Jabez was silent for a moment. 

“ All right,” said he gently. “ I’ll tell you a new 
one — a rip-snorter.” 


CHAPTER XX 


ON INFORMATION AND BELIEF ’’ 

Joan Bright walked briskly up Blagden Avenue the 
next morning. The day was warm, and sweet, and 
spring-like ; the sky was blue ; the trees were beginning 
to don their gay greenery, and the dead leaves of last 
fall no longer littered the well-kept lawns. 

She was abroad early, bound for the home of Horace 
Blagden, to see Mary Midthorne. Her blithe young 
heart would not stay closed against the wayward friend; 
she was off to make peace with her and to beg forgive- 
ness for her own shortcomings. 

She had thought it all out. She had been thinking 
it all out for weeks and months. After all, what had 
Mary done that was so deserving of reproach.? Noth- 
ing, — nothing at all. Miss Bright was arguing, when 
one came to sift out the facts of the case. For that 
matter, had not her own judgment of Mary’s frivolities 
been formed while she was still under the influence of 
those back-number morals of the old Corinth? She had 
pronounced herself broad-minded, even in the old days 
before the reconstruction; now she realised that she had 
been narrow — not so narrow as the rest of them. 
Heaven forbid! — but disposed to a shortness of vision 
that did not permit her to see far beyond the confines 
of a very small circumference. 

In some unaccountable way, she theorised, everything 
in Corinth had undergone a subtle change. Church- 
going, for instance, struck her as a rather sprightly 
proceeding nowadays, instead of the laboriously som- 
366 


ON INFORMATION AND BELIEF ” 367 


bre duty it once had been. Corinth, throughout all its 
concentrated life, had gone to church with a stately en- 
ergy ; now it seemed to have conceived the idea it was 
pleasanter to go about it cheerfully, gladly, even 
springily. Joan found herself comparing Corinth with 
other satisfying places in the great big world,, — not 
the Babylons, but the clean, wholesome, alive places 
where one could take a deep breath of God’s air and not 
feel contaminated because the ungodly shared it in com- 
mon. 

Blagden Avenue was no wider than it had ever been ; 
it just seemed to her that it was. What influence had 
been at work to open the front room window blinds in all 
the houses along the Avenue, not only on week days but 
on the Sabbath? The front room or parlour gloom of 
sanctuary no longer prevailed, she noticed that. Sun- 
day nowadays found the light streaming into those prim 
and virtuous rooms with all the glory it could produce. 
She recalled other days, not so far off, when Corinth 
closed its front-room shutters for fear the world might 
look within and break the holy Sabbath day. Now 
Corinth sat on its front porches and gave welcome to the 
Sabbath all day long. 

No wonder the town seemed new to her, and bet- 
ter. 

She recalled certain comments her father had made in 
the automobile the day before while they were being 
whisked homeward after that uplifting service. 

Blagden Avenue seems broader than it was yester- 
day,” he had said. 

“ It is quite as wide, literally, as Broadway, Judge 
Bright,” said young Mr. Sallonsby. 

“ Ah, but the whole world is in Broadway.” 

‘‘ I think the world is just beginning to take notice of 


S68 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


Blagden Avenue,” was the young man’s comment. He 
meant to be sarcastic, but merely spoke the truth. 

“ The world isn’t so bad as it’s painted.” 

‘‘ Depends on local colour,” said the young man, air- 
ing himself epigrammatically. He felt rather proud 
of it. 

“ And whether you look up or down,” completed the 
Judge. 

And so, said Joan to herself that night after Sal- 
lonsby had taken his departure, it all depends • on the 
way one looked at Mary Midthome’s so-called indiscre- 
tions. She was rather ashamed of herself for having 
peeped at them from behind closed front-room shutters, 
so to speak. 

Moreover, she had treated Eric rather cavalierly after 
church. Perhaps it was the thought of that which 
kept her awake nearly all of the night, trying to blot 
out the expression she had caught in his eyes. 

She wondered if she would see him that morning. 
How handsome, how manly he had looked — But how 
now! She was on her way to see Mary and no one 
else. She reminded herself of this at least a dozen 
times during her progress up Blagden Avenue. 

Suddenly her heart began to beat furiously, the colour 
came and went in her cheek, and her eyes experienced a 
curious effect of momentary uselessness. 

Eric Midthorne had turned the corner above and was 
approaching her with long, vigorous strides, his head 
lowered, his hands in his coat pockets. The gray Fe- 
dora hat was pulled well down over his eyes. He looked 
up when he was twenty yards away, and saw her. 

His face, which had been pale and worn a moment 
before, was now a dusky red. On the instant, hers be- 
came flushed and hot. 


« ON INFORMATION AND BELIEF ” 369 


She extended her gloved little hand. 

“ How do you do, Eric,” she said. 

They were looking squarely into each other’s eyes as 
if fascinated. 

“ I am on my way to see your father,” said he, the 
breath suddenly gone from his lungs. He spoke as if 
it were a physical effort to do so. Then, as if remem- 
bering himself, he released her hand. 

She waited a moment. “ In regard to the plans ? ” 
she asked in the same manner and quite without purpose. 
She could feel the blood roaring in her head. 

“ Yes. I — I can’t undertake the work,” he replied, 
the words coming rapidly. ‘‘ I must give it up. He’U 
have to get someone else.” 

Her eyes fell; her cheeks lost their vivid colour. 

“I — he won’t let you off, Eric,” she stammered. 

I am sure he will not.” 

His smile was not pleasant to see. 

‘‘ A great deal has happened since the bargain was 
made,” he said. The word “ bargain ” possessed an 
ominous, even accusing sound for her. 

She met his gaze. “ I am on my way to see Mary 
now,” she said, as if that explained everything that had 
passed. 

His face brightened. “You are.? I’m glad, Joan. 
Nothing should come between you two. Mary loves 
you.” 

“ Then it will be all right,” said she, eagerly. “ I 
was quite wrong — stupidly wrong. I hope she will 
understand and — and overlook some of the — ” 

“ Why couldn’t you have written me that you’d 
ceased to care, Joan.? ” he broke in regardless. “ Why 
did you let me go on thinking that you — But, good 
heaven, what am I saying.? You are right. You have 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


370 

made it easy for me. It would have been hard — oh, 
so hard to have broken it off if you had gone on car- 
ing.” 

She started. Suddenly she was the Joan of old. 
‘‘ Broken it off? ” she cried blankly. “ I don’t under- 
stand.” 

‘‘ I will not ask why you have ceased caring,” he went 
on rapidly. “ That is your own affair. I am glad that 
you are spared the pain of caring for someone — ^ 
in that way — who isn’t worthy. You have found some- 
one who deserves — ” 

“ Eric, I — ” she began tremulously, then caught her- 
self up with an effort. “ Let me turn back with you, 
please do,” she substituted in low, eager tones. “ I 
must see you alone, I must talk with you, Eric. There 
is so much I have to say that can’t be said out here 
in — ” 

“ Joan! ” he cried. “ You don’t mean that you — ” 

“I — I haven’t changed,” she murmured. “ There 
isn’t anyone else — there covldnH be.” 

“And Sallonsby?” he said, the blood rioting in hia 
veins. 

“ You have never been out of my thoughts — not for 
a moment, day or night. Oh, we cannot talk here I ” 

He forgot his troubles in the great joy that swept 
over him, in the discovery that she was true after all. 
The tender word “ sweetheart ” burst from his lips. A 
mist swam before his eyes. But, almost with his breath 
of joy came the chill that blighted it. 

He would have to hurt her, after all. His face grew 
bleak and haggard, his lip trembled. She misconstrued 
the emotion that was depicted there. 

“ When I heard that you were here, I insisted on 
coming home,” she went on breathlessly. “ Father tele- 


ON INFORMATION AND BELIEF ” 371j 


graphed to me last week. I had told him that the yacht 
was to extend the cruise several weeks longer.*’ 

“ But you knew I was coming on the eighth,” he 
said. “ You had my letters.” 

^ “ They were forwarded to me. I got them at Ha- 

vana. And, Eric,” she continued, flushed and ill-at- 
ease, “ I was afraid you would hate me for my treat- 
ment of Mary. I misjudged her. It was because I 
was jealous. She preferred to be with John Payson 
and those women friends of his. I ;.ouldn’t help resent- 
ing it.” 

‘‘ Payson is a gentleman. I’ve found that out for 
myself,” said Eric, indirectly defending Mary. 

‘‘ It was all so very childish of me,” she confessed. 

I am ashamed of myself.” 

They were now walking slowly, side by side, toward 
her home. Obviously, Mary was no longer paramount 
to her intentions. 

He halted her abruptly. 

“ It’s no use, Joan,” he exclaimed. ‘‘ I can’t let it go 
on. Something has happened. You will know what it 
is before the day is over. I haven’t the courage to tell 
you myself.” 

Her hand was on his arm. 

“ Nothing can matter, Eric — nothing in the world,” 
she said glibly. “ You are disappointed in me. You 
have a grievance, but it is imaginary. I can smooth 
those lines away if you will just be patient with me. 
You are peeved and unhappy, you poor boy.” 

“ It’s got to end,” he repeated doggedly. 

She stared. Alarm showed in her eyes. 

“There isn’t anyone else.?” she asked, after a mo- 
ment. 

“ No, no ! ” he cried out bitterly. 


372 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


‘‘ Then why — ” she began impetuously, but checked 
the words to say instead : “ Eric, dear, won’t you come 

home with me? We will not say another word all the 
way. When we are in the house you may tell me every- 
thing. But you mmt come with me.” 

They came upon Judge Bright in the yard. He 
smiled genially as they drew near, failing to note the 
serious look in their faces or the dejected droop of 
Eric’s head. 

The young man had been thinking hard during those 
blocks of self-imposed silence. He owed the truth to 
Joan. It was wrong in him to even think of leaving 
her in the dark, unprepared for the shock that was to 
come later in the day. She should have it first from 
his lips. 

“ So he wasnH offended by the way you ran off and 
left him yesterday — ” began the Judge. His daugh- 
ter’s face became very pink, she caught her breath in 
dismay. 

Eric smiled wearily. So there had been compunc- 
tions! She had talked it over with her father. There 
was something in that to be treasured. 

The Judge said ahem! thrice in rapid succession, and 
fell away before the daggers in Joan’s eyes. With a 
very perfunctory remark about the splendour of the day, 
he stood aside to let them pass, grimly certain of a bad 
half hour when she had him alone. 

Her cheeks were still pink when she preceded Eric 
into the library. Turning abruptly, she placed her 
hands on his shoulders. 

“ Eric, I want you to hold me in your arms as you — 

He crushed her to his breast. For a long time they 
stood so, their hot young lips meeting in long, devour- 
ing kisses. 


“ ON INFORMATION AND BELIEF ” S7S 


At last he released her, and drew back with a groan 
of despair. She was smiling radiantly up into his eyes. 

“ It isn’t so terrible after all, is it.? ” she cried breath- 
lessly. Then she noticed his expression. “ Was it so 
terrible as all that? ” she exclaimed, pouting. 

She was pulling off her gloves, all the while watch- 
ing him as he stood grim and silent against the huge 
library table, as if in need of support. Then off came 
her trim jacket. He did not offer to assist her. She 
was puzzled. 

“ Don’t remove your hat, Joan,” he said, holding up 
his hand. “ Stand there, just as you are, while I tell you 
why it cannot go on. I love you — I worship you. I 
don’t want you ever to forget that, dearest.” 

Again he spared not the details. The whole story 
poured from his lips with a rush that left her power- 
less to interrupt. Her eyes never left his set, unflinch- 
ing face. A sort of stupefaction possessed her. He 
saw the various changes of expression that followed the 
dawn of comprehension: the widening of her eyes in 
horror, the narrowing in pain, the flashes of excitement 
and sympathy, the dying of all that had been joyous. 

“ I am sorry, Joan,” he said at the end, after waiting 
a moment for her to speak. ‘‘ You understand. I had 
to tell you, just as I told the others.” 

He expected her to turn away from him with a shud- 
der of revulsion, — he dreaded it. But she did not turn 
away. She stood still, her hands gripping the chair 
which supported her, her big eyes looking into the very 
soul of him. 

‘‘ I’ll go now,” he muttered, suddenly weak and 
trembling. 

‘‘ Wait ! ” she said, almost mechanically. ‘‘ Where are 
you going? ” 


S74i 


MARY MIBTHORNE 


To the sheriff,” he announced. “ Will you tell 
your father? He will understand why I can’t go on 
with the house. He need never know what we have 
been to each other. Perhaps it is better that he should 
not know. You — ” 

With a sharp, inarticulate cry she threw herself on his ^ 
breast ; she pressed his cheeks with her tense little hands 
and shook him desperately, fiercely. Quick, hysterical 
sentences rushed from her lips. 

“You are not a murderer. You were not to blame. 
Do you think I will let you go away feeling as you do? 
Do you think all this can change me in the least? Ex- 
cept to make me love you more than ever — a thousand- 
fold more. Eric, Eric, you must listen to me. I mean 
it, — every word of it. I will not let you go.” 

• • i*. • i». 

An hour later, Eric walked down Blagden Avenue^ 
accompanied by Judge Oswald Bright. The older man 
had his arm linked with that of his companion. From 
the porch of the house they had just left, Joan waved 
to them as they turned to look back from the corner 
below where the hedges grew high and wall-like. 

“ If I should happen to wake up right now,” said ^ 
Eric, a trifle unsteadily, “ I’m afraid the disappointment 
would kill me. Of course, it’s only a dream.” 

The Judge smiled. “ You’ve just come out of a 
dream, — and a very bad one at that. A nightmare 
six years long ! Good heaven, what an age ! I shudder 
to think of what it has been to poor old Horace and 
Mrs. Blagden.” 

They were on their way to the office of a lawyer in 
Bank Street, pursuant to a plan of action advanced by 
Joan’s father after he had recovered sufficiently from 


ON INFORMATION AND BELIEF ” 375 

the effect of two shocks, — for it is always a shock to a 
father, even though he may have suspected his daugh- 
ter’s secret all along. He agreed with Eric that it was 
best for him to put himself in the hands of the law with- 
out delay, and to go through the form of being legally 
relieved of the charge of manslaughter. 

“ But I — I can’t ask Joan to be my wife. Judge 
Bright, even though I am discharged — ” Eric had 
started to say back there in the house, only to be 
stopped by the girl. 

“ You’ve already asked me,” she had said, “ and I 
iwill not release you.” 

Whereupon Judge Bright had gravely said, laying 
his hands on the young man’s shoulders: 

‘‘We have only the law to consider, Eric. If the 
law puts no barrier between you and Joan, I shall not 
•do so. You understand.? ” 

“ You mean, if the law says I am innocent.? ” 

“ That’s it, my lad.” 

“ I understand. Judge Bright.” 

They had considered the designs of Horace Blagden, 
who, for reasons best known to himself, had carefully 
avoided Eric since that harrowing scene in the library. 
In order to anticipate any inimical move on the part of 
Chetwynd’s father. Judge Bright volunteered to go at 
once to the house on the hill for the purpose of arguing 
the case before the real judge, the real prosecutor. He 
tried to share with Eric the belief that Mr. Blagden 
would refuse to prosecute. But he was not yet able to 
view Horace Blagden in the aspect of humility that 
Eric described ; he had known the great man of Corinth 
all his life. He was not so sure that he could change 
his spots. 

ji K N a .• k 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


ST6 

As a matter of fact, neither Mr. Blagden nor his wife 
left the room during the remainder of that awful Sab- 
bath, nor did they appear for breakfast the next mom-* 
ing. Eric and Mary had sat up half the night, waiting 
in suspense and dread for the library door to open to 
admit the gaunt figure of their uncle. As friend or 
foe it mattered little toward the end of their vigil, so 
eager were they to have the ordeal over with. They, 
could hear the tread of footsteps overhead, and the oc- 
casional murmur of voices through the bedroom door. 
At midnight the light in the room was extinguished 
and the two who waited stole off to bed, the unknown 
verdict hanging over them. 

They slept not. Long after the clock struck three, 
— not the old clock in the hall, but the new one in the 
Court-house dome, — they heard a door open stealthily] 
and then the soft shuffle of feet in the hallway. A 
board in the floor creaked near Eric’s door. He did 
not move, but the cold perspiration crept out all oveij 
his body. 

Someone stood outside his door, listening. Sharp 
ears might have heard the beating of the heart that 
drummed in Eric’s breast. Then the ghostly creaking 
of the board again, and the shuffling of those stealthy 
feet. A distant door whined softly and a lock clicked. 
Then the house was still once more. 

Eric sprang out of bed and opened his door. There 
was no light in the transom down the hall. 

He and Mary breakfasted together. Martha, more 
mystified than she had ever been in all her life, informed 
them that the Master and Mrs. Blagden would have 
their coffee upstairs. 

Eric had hurried off immediately after that dismal 
meal. He was barely out of sight beyond the hedge at 


“ ON INFORMATION AND BELIEF ” 37T 


the bottom of the yard, when Horace came down the 
stairs, meeting Mary in the hall. 

“ Where has Eric gone ? ” he demanded, visibly agi- 
tated. His manner was so strange that the girl invol- 
untarily drew back against the stair-rail. 

“ He — he has — ” she stammered. 

Speak ! Wliere has he gone ? ” interrupted her 
uncle sharply^ 

‘‘ He has gone to the — the Court-house, Uncle Hor- 
ace, to give himself — ” 

He did not wait for her to complete the sentence, but 
turned and ascended the stairs with unusual swiftness. 
A few minutes later he came down, attired for the street. 
As he passed her in the hall, he said : 

“ Your aunt would like you to come up to her for a 
little while, Mary. I am obliged to go out for a short 
time.” 

He went down the walk swiftly, his tall figure as 
straight as a ramrod, his cane pegging resolutely on the 
hard gravel path. He left the gate open, an absolutely 
unique oversight on his part. Such a thing had not 
happened in the memory of man. Even Chetwynd had 
been punctilious about closing the high iron gate in 
the wall at the bottom of the yard. But to-day Horace 
himself left it wide open as he hurried off in the direction 
of the city centre. 

Mrs. Blagden did not keep Mary long in the room 
upstairs. To the girl’s surprise, the shades were up 
as high as they would go, the lace curtains and the 
chintz over-hangings were drawn back and caught in 
loops over the long unused brass hooks at the sides of 
the windows. The sun streamed into the room. Her 
aunt sat by a window, looking into the yard. As Mary 
entered, she turned toward her, holding out her hand. 


378 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


“ Come here, Mary,” she said, her voice clear and 
steady, and full of a rare sweetness. The girl crossed 
quickly. “Do you think you can learn to love me? 
Can you forget the unkindness — ” 

Mary dropped to her knees beside the chair and kissed 
the delicate hand that had been lifted against her up to 
this day. 

“ I do not ask you to try to do all this at once,” said 
Mrs. Blagden, laying the other hand on the dark head 
at her knee. “ Impulsiveness moves you now. You 
are sorry for me. You pity me. It will take time to 
bring about all that I want, all that I crave. See ! The 
sun is bright. The world is brighter to-day than it 
has been for years. Look at me, Mary. Am I not 
different? Am I not changed? ” 

The girl looked up and wondered. There was colour 
in her aunt’s face, there was life in her eyes. 

“I — I thought you would be utterly crushed. Aunt 
Rena,” she murmured. 

“ Crushed? Ah, I am not happy. I can never be 
happy, my child. But my mind is at rest. My boy is 
not wandering. He is in heaven. Yes, in heaven, for 
his mother’s prayers uttered all through the days of his 
life cannot have been without avail in the hour that he 
stood before his Maker, so suddenly called, so miserably 
unprepared. God must have kept account of all my 
prayers. Chetwynd did not go before Him unheralded, 
unrepresented. A mother’s love had spoken for him 
through all the years, — even through those evil years 
when he was not what he should have been. And God 
kept a record of my prayers. Chetwynd is with God 
to-day. Something deep in my soul tells me this. I 
hnow it. His sins were paid for in full during that 
half-second of mortal agony while he was falling to the 


“ON INFORMATION AND BELIEF” S79 


rocks. Did not Eric hear his single cry to God? That 
one word — ‘ God! ’ — that was his prayer, and his saL 
vation. In the eleventh hour, if we ask we shall re- 
ceive. In the final second of life, God’s name is our 
refuge, our hope. He prayed to God in that swift de- 
scent, in the half-second of life left to him. No, Mary> r 
he is not out there in the Atlantic. He is with Christ in 
— Ah, my dear, you cannot understand! You do not 
see it as I see it. But how can you ? ” 

A smile of ineffable sweetness illuminated her eyes. 

“ Try to love me, dear. That’s all I ask now,” she 
went on. “ I am not asking you to forgive Chetwynd. 
You have nothing to cherish in the memory of your 
cousin. I do not expect that of you.” 

“ He hated Eric and me,” was all that Mary could 
say. She felt as though she had committed a crime, the- 
instant the words were out. 

“ That word ‘ hate ’ ! ” cried Mrs. Blagden, with 
shiver. “ How sweet, how gentle, how tender is that 
other word — love! Come, I want you to draw up a 
chair beside me. We will watch for the return of your 
uncle and Eric. He has gone out to find Eric, to 
bring him back here before he can do anything 
rash. See ! I shall be sitting here in the window where 
he can see me as he comes up the walk. He is to be our 
boy now.” 

Mary burst into tears. The promise of mercy in that 
brief but significant sentence was more than she could 
have hoped for. Eric was safe! The Blagdens were 
great, after all ! 

Mrs. Blagden’s voice, when she spoke again after 
JMary’s outburst was over, was strangely dull and list- 
less. “ How long it has been. It seems to me that I 
have sat in these windows for centuries, waiting, watch- 


680 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


ing, almost dreading. And oh, the fear of Adam Carr! 
The fear of a bloodhound ! ” 

“ Don’t, Aunt Rena, please don’t think about it,” 
came in choked tones from Mary. 

Her aunt was pensive for a long time, her far-away 
gaze resting on the rim of blue sky that topped the 
trees. 

“ I hope your uncle is not too late,” she said, a sud- 
den weariness in her manner. 

Mary sprang to her feet. The thought that had been 
lying dormant in her mind all morning revived with 
startling force. 

‘‘ Eric may have gone first to Mrs. Payson’s house,” 
she said rapidly. “ He tried to find John Pay son last 
night. It was to see about arranging a bond of some 
sort. Perhaps he is there now.” 

“John Payson!” exclaimed Mrs. Blagden, her face 
stiffening. “ Why should he ask anything of that 
man ? ” 

A lump rose in Mary’s throat. She saw red for an 
instant. 

“ Because he needs a strong, true friend, Aunt Rena,” 
she said. 

“ I should think he’d had enough of Adam Carr,” 
said the other, with a world of meaning in her manner. 

“ I know what you mean,” said Mary patiently. 

But it isn’t true, — it isn’t true. Aunt Rena.” 

“ Your uncle says — ” 

“ I know what he thinks, if not what he says. Uncle 
Horace is wrong. But even if he is right, why should 
it matter.? John Payson can’t help who and what he is. 
The same God who made all of us made him also. He 
is what God made him, not what Uncle Horace and 
others try to — ” 


“ ON INFORMATION AND BELIEF ” 381 


“ Hush, Mary. Do not say anything more. I 
should not have spoken as I did. It was the old rancour 
cropping out. Your uncle, good man that he is, bears 
no ill-will toward Jack Pay son now. He said as much 
last night in this very room. Ah, what a change has 
come over Horace Blagden ! ” 

She unconsciously gave expression to the great won- 
der that had been growing in her for days. 

“ When you are married to him,” went on Mrs. Blag- 
den, “ we shall be glad to receive him as our nephew, 
provided he can accept us as we are, not as we were.” 

“ Oh, I am sure. Aunt Rena, — ” began Mary joy- 
ously. 

‘‘ Do not speak for Jack Payson, my dear,” said 
the older woman calmly. ‘‘ Let him do that for him- 
self.” 

It was then that Mary proposed that she set out for 
Mrs. Payson’s home at once, with the view to finding 
Eric. It was still early and he was doubtless there in 
consultation with Payson, who was not to return to New 
York until late in the afternoon. 

“ Go, my dear,” said her aunf. “ Lose no time. It 
is most imperative.” 


As for Eric, we know that he did not go to the Widow 
Payson’s. 

With Judge Bright he entered the county Court-house 
at ten o’clock. They had gone to the office of the law- 
yer in Bank Street, only to be told by the clerk that Mr. 
Gates unexpectedly had been called to the sheriff’s office 
a few minutes earlier. He did not know the nature of 
the business, but it was important, as his superior had 
departed in haste. 


68 ^ 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


As they walked down the corridor they were met by 
the editor of the Courier^ who came up from the other 
entrance, quite out of breath and visibly excited. 

“ Hello,” he said. Being an editor, he was on fa- 
miliar terms with everyone, great and small. A Justice 
of the Supreme Court possessed no terrors for him. 
“ Morning, Judge. Well, well, Eric, let me congratu- 
late you. Great piece of news. All in type by this 
time, too. I — ” 

“ Congratulate ? ” gasped Eric. 

“ Type.? ” ejaculated Judge Bright. 

“ Sure. Your uncle released it by ’phone ten min- 
utes ago, and told me to get over here as quickly as I 
could. Corinth will turn over in its grave when it sees 
the Courier this evening. Great guns! Think of a 
library building bigger than the new paper mill and 
straw-board works combined ! Why, it’s — ” 

Eric’s bitter laugh stopped him. 

“ I fancy. Cooper, you’ll have another bit of news that 
will surprise you,” said Judge Bright. 

‘‘Not the wedding announcement!” gasped Cooper, 
showing how the wind blew. 

“ That comes later on,” said the Judge. 

“Well, well, I — 1 do congratulate you,” said the 
editor, sticking out his hand once more. But Eric’s 
eyes were on the door of the sheriff’s office and he did 
not see the ink-stained fingers. 

“ In the private office. Judge,” said the lone deputy 
in the front office. “ Waitin’ for Eric in there. H’are 
you, Eric.? What’s up? ” 

Mr. Cooper was following the pair into the private 
office when the deputy called out to him : 

“ Private, Joe. Can’t go in yet.” 

I’ve been sent for,” retorted Cooper, the editor. 


“ ON INFORMATION AND BELIEF ” 383 


“ Set down. They’ll send again, I guess,” said the 
deputy succinctly. 

There were three men in the private office, all stand- 
ing. Judge Bright closed the door. Mr. Gates, the 
lawyer, stood beside the table, confronting the sheriff 
and the state’s attorney. The latter evidently had been 
reading aloud the document which he held in his hand. 
The sheriff, a fat little man with chin whiskers, was 
looking over the other’s shoulder as the newcomers en- 
tered. He immediately turned to them, betraying con- 
siderable excitement. 

“ So here you are, Midthorne,” he greeted, stepping 
forward. “ Glad to see you. How are you this morn- 
ing. Morning, Judge. Well, — ” he affected a pleas- 
ant grin, — “ I guess it won’t take long to fix it all up. 
This is the state’s attorney, Mr. Midthorne. Reckon 
you know Mr. Gates. He is to represent you, I believe. 
Course, I suppose, to be quite regular, I should put you 
under arrest, Mr. Midthorne. But what’s the use going 
over aU that.^ We understand each other, I reckon, 
so — ” 

“ But I do not understand,” cried Eric in astonish- 
ment. How do you happen to know what I am here 
for? No one knows except — ” 

“ Oh, Mr. Blagden’s upstairs in the court-room now, 
waiting for us,” explained the sheriff. “ Got the bond 
all ready to be signed and everything. So, don’t worry. 
Mr. Collins here has got the affydavit drawn, — on infor- 
mation and belief, ain’t it? — and as long as you’re sat- 
isfied to give yourself up, it won’t be necessary for me 
to have a warrant. Course, the affydavit will have to be 
read, and all that, but it won’t take long.” 

‘‘ My uncle has been here.? ” gasped Eric, recovering 
from his surprise. 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


S84* 

Mr. Gates came forward. “ He has attended to 
everything, Mr. Midthorne. You may leave it ail in 
my hands. I think we will have no difficulty in securing 
a speedy trial. You — but we will discuss the matter 
later in my office.” He waved his hand in the direction 
of the state’s attorney, smiling blandly. “ You see, we 
I can’t afford to play into the hands of the enemy.” 

Completely dazed, Eric followed the men out of the 
office and up the broad steps to the court-room. Mr. 
Cooper took it upon himself to walk beside the young 
man. 

“ What’s up ? ” he whispered eagerly. What’s 
going on? Put a fellow next, Eric. The — old geezer 
upstairs isn’t thinking of a divorce, is he ? ” 

‘‘ Good heaven, no ! ” exclaimed Eric. He liked 
Joe Cooper. ‘‘ Wait a few minutes. I can’t tell you 
now.” 

The court-room was quite empty, except for the pres- 
ence of a lone figure seated inside the railing, quite close 
to the bench, and two bailiffs who conversed lazily at 
one of the windows overlooking Main Street. 

Despite its deserted appearance, court was in session. 
The judge leaned forward to converse in subdued tones 
with the man below. He looked up as the group came 
through the swinging doors, and settled back in his 
chair to compose himself for that typical exposition of 
judicial indifference that never fails to create in the 
mind of the layman doubt as to whether the Court is 
asleep or awake, or merely thinking of something en- 
tirely foreign to the cause before him. And just when 
you think he is sleeping the soundest, he starts up and 
says something so pertinent that you know he has been 
listening all the time. Only it does make one drowsy to 
watch the half -recumbent Court on a warm day late in 


“ON INFORMATION AND BELIEF” 385 


the April term. You wonder if he, too, isn’t thinking 
of meadoAv-larks. 

Eric, a trifle dazed and bewildered, stopped just inside 
the rail, while the others went forward, — that is to saj, 
with the single exception of the sheriff, who, after sev- 
eral leisurely strides, bethought himself of his prisoner 
and halted in some conflict between his duty as a cus- 
todian and a certain inborn tendency to avoid anything 
that might give offence to Mr. Horace Blagden. He 
managed to console himself with the thought that, fig- 
uratively, he had haled his prisoner into court. Still,, 
he halted and motioned for Eric to draw nearer and sit 
down. 

The prisoner — for he was a prisoner in the strict 
sense of the word — did not sit down, but stood there 
staring at the tall, thin figure of his uncle, who had 
risen and was facing him. The domineering look had 
come back into the face of Horace Blagden. It was 
the look of the man who takes things in his own hands 
and has his own way, no matter what the issue. He 
had quite overlooked the fact that this was Eric’s affair, 
to be handled as he saw fit, and had taken the initiative 
without consulting his nephew’s wishes, — a very char- 
acteristic Blagden trait that had not been completely 
overcome, it would appear. 

Suddenly a smile crept into his face, an appealing, 
wistful smile that was more of an apology than all the 
words he could have uttered. A moment before he 
would have commanded Eric to approach; now he hesi- 
tatingly motioned with his hand. 

Together they stood before the Court while Mr. Col- 
lins read the affidavit. The two bailiffs, aroused from 
their lethargy, drew near, and the deputy clerk emerged 
from the inner room in response to a summons from 


^386 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


the bench. Mr. Blagden had shaken hands with his 
nephew, and had stroked his shoulder kindly. 

The puzzled editor, taking note of this, blinked his 
eyes dizzily. It was most extraordinary! A minute 
later he was drinking in the most stupendous news story 
that ever had come to him in all his years of experience : 
the solution of the great Blagden mystery. 

“ Say ‘ not guilty,’ ” whispered Mr. Blagden in Eric’s 
ear. 

Not guilty,” said Eric, taking his eyes from the 
prosecutor’s face to stare blankly at his uncle. 

He heard the Court speaking. He was being bound 
over in the sum of ten thousand dollars to the next term, 
unless the case could be moved forward by mutual con- 
sent and in the convenience of the Court. 

“ Mr. Oakes and Mr. Elston will sign the bond, Mr. 
Sheriff,” said Horace. “ I daresay they are waiting in 
your office now. Shall we go down? ” 

But I don’t know either of these gentlemen,” pro- 
tested Eric. “ Besides, I mean to have John Payson 
attend to the bond for — ” 

“ Nonsense,” said Mr. Blagden, ‘‘ it is all attended to. 
There can’t be any hitch. I’ve telephoned to Mr. Oakes 
and Mr. Elston, asking them to come here at once. I 
shall tell them what it is all about when I see them. 
They will be very happy to go on the bond, I am sure. 
Some sort of ridiculous law prohibits my signing the 
bond, my boy, or at least, so your attorney informs 
me.” 

In the corridor, Eric came out of the daze that had 
held him in a sort of stupor during all of the proceed- 
ings. He drew his uncle aside. 

“ Uncle Horace,” he said simply, “ I don’t know 
what to say to you. I don’t know how to express my- 


« ON INFORMATION AND BELIEF S8T 


self. Will you give me time to think it all out and let 
me tell you later how much I — ” 

“ Eric,” interrupted the older man, I am doing all 
this to please your aunt and myself. We are very self- 
ish people. We are covetous. We have discovered that 
there is something that we have always wanted and never 
really had. We want to be loved.” 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE MORNING IN HANDY STREET 

^ In the meantime, Mary Midthorne had found Jack Pay- 
son. She descended from exclusive Upper Corinth into 
the prim but humble district known as the Fourth Ward, 
where lived the plain people; here no man was down- 
right poor, yet none was rich, save in honour and con- 
tentment. You had but to look at the long rows of cot- 
tages to know that peace reigned external if not eternal. 
There were no outward signs of envy or jealousy, yet 
how well the woman was despised whose husband pros- 
pered so steadily that he was looking at property ’way 
up town with a view to building a house that was “ fit 
to live in.” Even the erection of a summer kitchen or 
the expansion of the front stoop into a verandah was 
proof of an affluency that came in for general resent- 
ment and all sorts of talk about “ pride going before a 
fall.” 

But the people of Corinth never fell in just that way. 
Their thrift was their pride. If they fell it was not 
because pride had anything to do with it, but because 
it was the height of extravagance to carry fire insur- 
ance. You might burn them out, but in no other way 
could you humble them — especially those who lived in 
the Fourth Ward. 

The Widow Payson lived in one of the clean little 
streets that lay within easy walking distance of every 
other place in Corinth. If you had a springy, pro- 
jecting stride, you could easily make the docks in five 
minutes, or you could circle the Court-house square and 


THE MORNING IN HANDY STREET 389 


do a block or two extra on Main Street in six or seven. 
Besides, it wasn’t far to Upper Corinth, and was farther 
removed from the detested Todville. There was really 
something in that. By an odd perfection of street 
nomenclature, it was called Handy Street in commemora- 
tion of a citizen who went to war as a private and came 
out a corporal. A great favourite with Washington, 
the story goes, and intensely disliked by King George 
the Third. 

At any rate, Mrs. Payson lived in Handy Street. 
Hers was a neat little cottage with vines growing all 
over it, and a garden at the back with a white-washed 
fence around it, just as you might have expected. 
There was a great knocker on the vine-surrounded 
door inside the porch, and a name plate, and a peep- 
hole with a sliding shutter. As quaint a place as 
you would see in a day’s journey through old New: 
England. 

Mary, flushed and suddenly shy, rattled the knocker 
after a rather timid fashion. The door was opened at 
once, to her great surprise. She had been watching the 
closed shutter in the ancient peep-hole as if fascinated, 
confidently expecting to see it slide back to reveal a 
grewsome, questioning eye. 

John Payson himself opened the door. A certain 
haggard, tired expression left his face as if by magic. 
If she had been less absorbed in her own feelings, she 
would have noticed something more than surprise in the 
eyes of her lover. 

‘‘ Why, Mary ! ” he exclaimed, throwing the door 
wide open. ‘‘What has happened? Has anything 
gone wrong with Eric? ” 

“Hasn’t he been here? You have not seen him?’’ 
she inquired anxiously. 


S90 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


He had not asked her to enter, but stood before her,| 
blocking the doorway. 

“ I have not seen him,” he said, a queer nervousness 
in his manner. What has happened Tell me. Can 
I be of any service to him ? ” 

“ May I not come in, J ack ? ” she asked, suddenly 
struck by the odd look iil his eyes. A swift premonition 
of disaster came over her. He was so palpably ill-at- 
ease and confused; he was keeping something back from 
her. Why do you look at me so queerly? Oh, Jack, 
he — he hasn’t tried to — ” She was terrified. The 
ugly suspicion could not be put into words. 

He made haste to reassure her. “ I have not seen 
him. My mother says he was here last night, when I 
was away.” He hesitated for a moment and then went 
on, his face ghastly white. ‘‘ I would ask you to come 
in, Mary, but something terrible has happened here. 
You would better go on to Eric and leave me to look 
after — 

“ Not your mother. Jack? ” she cried, staring. 

His eyes fell. For a moment his lips worked pain- 
fully, then became rigid. When he looked up again, 
the utmost desolation lay in his eyes. 

“ No, Mary. My father,” he said levelly. 

She peered intently into his eyes. Her brain was ab- 
solutely clear. 

‘‘You — you mean — ” Every vestige of colour had 
fled from her face. 

He did not permit his gaze to waver, nor his face to 
change expression. His voice fell to a dull monotone. 

“ My father did not go down with the Lanigan. He 
lies in there on my bed, stricken, helpless, perhaps dy- 
ing. That is all, Mary. Why ask me to say more? ” 

She leaned against the trellis, trembling in every limb. 


THE MORNING IN HANDY STREET 391 


It is true, then,” she whispered dully. 

He is in there,” said he, in dogged acquiescence. 

Adam Carr.? ” 

My father.” 

They stood there for a long time, looking into eachs 
other’s eyes, the misery deepening in their faces. He 
turned away at last. 

You’d better go away now, Mary,” he said gently.. 

When you see Eric, tell him that he won’t have to look 
me up. It is all over. He was right. I am not 
worthy. But good heaven, Mary, I did not know, — I 
did not know ! I thought I was as good as any man 
living, and had the right to love as other men love. But, 
go, for God’s sake go! I cannot bear to have you 
hear — ” 

She advanced, her trembling hands pressed to her 
breast, her eyes dark with pain and understanding. 

“ Let me come in,” she murmured faintly. “ There 
is something that I must say to you. I came here to ask 
you to help Eric, to be his friend. He is in great trou- 
ble. Let me — 

He stood aside, making way for her to pass. The 
despair in his face gave way to a look of genuine con- 
cern and anxiety. 

‘‘In trouble.? What can I do for him.? Let me set 
about it at once. Perhaps I can serve him before he 
learns the full truth concerning me. After he knows, 
it will be too late. He would not accept my friend- 
ship. Ask me to die for you, — or for Eric, if that will 
help you, — and I will do it gladly. Yes, joyfully.” 

She walked into the parlour. Through her whirling 
brain ran the lines of that rare old bit of rhyme : “Will 
you walk into my parlour, said the spider to the fly.” 
Somehow, she felt that entanglement awaited her in the 


892 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


dim, shadowy room, — something she would never be 
able to escape from. She had never been inside the 
Widow Payson’s home before. Always, in her mind’s 
eye, she had pictured it as plain, poor and stiffly puritan- 
ical. Perhaps it had been all this another day, but now 
there were signs of coziness, even luxury in a small 
^ way. Her son had not prospered without the thought 
of her back of all his gains. There were handsome rugs 
on the floor; quaint old pieces of furniture, attractive 
pictures, cheerful wall-paper, rich window hangings and 
portieres. A tall walnut bookcase stood over against 
the wall, filled with volumes. The girl was dimly con- 
scious of a feehng of relief. If the room had looked 
like other parlours she had seen in Corinth, the sense 
of desolation would have been complete ; she would have 
lost heart. 

He closed the door gently, even carefully. She 
turned to look at him. He was peering fixedly at the 
drawn curtains of the door that opened into the room 
beyond: the attitude of one listening. The odour of a 
familiar and potent drug was faintly distinguishable. 
The girl experienced a queer feeling of dizziness, of 
, nausea. 

“ Where is your mother.? ” she asked abruptly. 

He drew up a chair for her, but she remained stand- 
ing. 

“ In there, — with him,” he replied, passing his hand 
over his brow. “ The doctor is there, too. But, tell 
me, Mary, what is up with Eric.? What is it you want 
me to do.? ” 

He made no effort to embrace her, not even the at- 
tempt to take her hand in his. The omission was sig- 
nificant. 

She was staring at him, a swiftly passing expression 


THE MORNING IN HANDY STREET 393 


of doubt and wonder in her eyes. “ Hasn’t Mr. Ad — 
your — I mean, hasn’t Mr. Carr told you anything? ” 
she asked. She fell into his way of speaking in hushed 
tones. He shook his head, and waited for her to go on. 
Her gaze involuntarily went to the curtained door. “ He 
can keep a secret,” she murmured. 

“ I am afraid he is beyond the telling of secrets,” was 
his grim conclusion. 

She started. “He is — he isn’t dead.^^” she whis- 
pered, bleak awe in her eyes. Suddenly she realised 
what Adam Carr’s death would mean to Eric. Her 
heart gave a bound of hope, of exultation. The only 
witness ! “ Why — why, if he were only dead — ” she 

began, a positive thrill in the voice, only to find the 
words dying on her lips. She quailed before the look 
in his eyes. “ Oh, what a brutal thing to say ! ” she 
cried, putting her hands to her cheeks and staring at 
him with shamed eyes. “ How selfish I am ! What a 
little beast ! ” 

He looked bewildered. “ I don’t understand all this,’^ 
he said. “ He isn’t dead, poor Mr. Adam,” he went on, 
unconscious of the appellation. “ That’s the worst of 
it. Better off a thousand fold than the way he is. He 
can keep a secret, you say. Ah, he can that! I know 
how well he can keep a secret. He has never betrayed 
my secret. Not a word from him — not a single word. 
He will die without breathing it to a soul. Ten thou- 
sand devils could not choke or beat it out of him. He 
would die ten thousand deaths in agony rather than say 
the thing that would hurt me. And now he is lying in 
there, voiceless and — But what is this I’m saying? I 
am terrifying you, my poor little sweetheart. Ranting 
like a mad-man ! Forgive me.” 

“ I am afraid. Jack,” she whispered, directing a look 


894 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


of abject terror at the motionless curtains, as if ex- 
pecting them to part and reveal a thing of horror. “ I 
can’t stay here. What is it.? What has happened.? 
For heaven’s sake, tell me at once. I shall scream if — ” 

She was edging farther away from him. 

‘‘ Come outside,” he said quickly. “ This is no place 
for you, dear.” 

He was moving toward the door, but she stopped him 
with a word. 

. «Wait!” 

After a moment’s hesitation, she withdrew her gaze 
from the curtains and turned to look at him. “ I will 
go away. Jack dear, for a little while. Forgive me 
for disturbing you. Of course, I could not have known. 
You are needed here. You cannot leave. I will go 
away. I — ” 

‘‘ I can’t let you go until I know what has happened,” 
he urged. “Don’t be afraid. Tell me. I can be of 
no service to — to him,” with a jerk of his head toward 
the inner room. “ He doesn’t need me. My mother, 

— she wants me to be near at hand in case — in cas*^ 
of — well, you know what I mean. He’s very low.- 
He may die — like this,” and he snapped his fingers 
sharply in illustration. “It’s as bad as that. Stay! 
We can go into her sitting-room. In here, Mary. It 
used to be my den when I lived at home. We can talk 
in — ” He stopped, struck by her appearance. 

“ Listen,” she whispered. “Do you hear.? Is that 

— is that his breathing .? Oh, how horrible 1 ” 

“ Come,” he said resolutely, taking her by the arm. 
She suffered herself to be led into the little room off the 
parlour. He took her to the sofa by the window and 
sat down beside her, suddenly clasping her cold little 
hand in his. 


THE MORNING IN HANDY STREET 395 


“ Don’t mind me,” he said, his voice breaking. 
“ What can I do — for you.^ ” 

She cringed. “ How can I ask anything of you when 
a moment ago I was rejoicing in the hope that Adam 
— that your — Oh, Jack, I can’t say it ! I can’t think 
of him as your father. Why — why — ” her eyes were 
wide with comprehension — it means that you are — 
are — ” 

Don’t say it, dear,” he broke in. Yes, I am what 
you think, but don’t say it.” He covered his eyes with 
his free hand, the other crushing her fingers in a grip 
of despair. 

She raised his hand to her lips. His fingers re- 
laxed. He uncovered his eyes to stare at her in won- 
der. 

I love you, just the same,” she declared. 

He started up. “ Good God! No ! You must never 
say that again — never ! ” 

‘‘ But I do ! ” she insisted. ‘‘ Always, Jack, — al- 
ways ! ” 

He sank back, the fierce light in his eyes giving way 
to one of compassion. Then he said, dully, drearily: 

“ You will think differently when you’ve had time, 
dear. I shall not hold you to those dear words. Now, 
let’s deal with the present. What has happened.'’ ” 

She told him in as few words as possible. In the end, 
she cried out bitterly: 

‘‘We haven’t so much to be proud of, have we.? 
Nothing to be set up about. Jack dear.” 

He was touched by the abject humility in her voice 
and manner. Her news had not produced in him the 
sensation of surprise and horror she expected. He 
had listened intently, but without a trace of excite- 
ment. This was a man’s affair, and John Payson was 


396 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


schooled in the ways of men ; he came by it naturally. 
He had seen other men in dire disaster, and other women. 
He had seen them in the depths and on the heights, 
and he had learned his lesson in the study of human 
emotions not so much through the medium of senti- 
mentality as by means of a shrewd estimate of the 
intermediate levels. Man is up to-day and down to- 
morrow. His true position is not known, even to him- 
self, for the simple reason that he passes it by without 
stopping. He has no self-recognised level; he avoids 
it because it is a commonplace state fit only for im- 
beciles. 

John Pay son had the power to analyse despair. He 
knew that the breath of a fair wind invariably blew 
warm against it and that the spirits went up as the 
mercury goes; a bleak wind drives them down. The 
same with joy. He had but to assure Mary Midthome 
that he would do everything in his power to help her 
brother, and to set about doing it, and the despair that 
filled her for the moment would fly before the rush of 
hope and confidence. 

He had seen the gloom of despair lift from the faces 
of men whose fortunes were at the lowest ebb at the 
cheerfully uttered sentence: “Well, things really look 
better to me to-day than they did yesterday.” 

He took the girl’s hands in his and said firmly : 

“ Nothing will come of it, Mary. Rest easy. Your 
brother is taking the right direction at last. There 
is but one thing for him to do, and I fancy he is doing 
it. He knows he is not morally guilty. What he 
wants is a clear slate so far as the law is concerned. 
After all that is over, he will be in debt to no man. 
But, as you say, he needs a cheerful friend to help 


THE MORNING IN HANDY STREET 39T 


him at the outset. Well, I can be cheerful if needs 
be. I’m not much to speak of at present, but I’m 
better than a fair-weather friend. He has undoubtedly 
gone to the sheriff’s office. I will hurry over at once 
and see what can be done about the bond. He will 
^ need that, of course. I can manage it easily if it isn’t 
too steep. This house belongs to me; also the office 
building at the comer of Main and Fourth Streets. 
That should be sufficient security for — ” 

“ Oh, Jack, I didn’t come here to ask you to go bail 
for him,” she cried, a deep flush in her cheek. “ We 
couldn’t think of it. You didn’t understand me, I am 
sure.” 

“ You mean that Eric would not accept me as 
surety.? ” he asked, his face clouding. 

‘‘No, no, — not that either,” she said, greatly dis- 
tressed. “ Only that you should not be asked to risk 
your property — ” 

“ Nonsense! ” he said, and there was no mistaking the 
relief in his voice. “ Now, go home, please, and rest 
secure. Don’t stay here, little girl. I will go to the 
Court-house as soon as the doctor comes out to report. 
Mother won’t mind being left alone for a while. Pro- 
vided, of course, there is no immediate — 

She caught the note of anxiety in his voice. “ No, 
Jack dear, you must not leave her. I will not let you 
do it. Your place is here. It was horribly selfish of 
me to even think — ” 

A door near at hand was closed gently; then came 
the rustle of heavy curtains, and the tread of foot- 
steps in the parlour. Mary shot an anxious look over 
her shoulder, arresting her own self-arraignment. 

“ The doctor,” said he quickly. He crossed rapidly 


898 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


and opened the door. Then, with a glance at her, he 
left the room, closing the door behind him. She was 
left alone. 

Not more than a minute passed before he returned. 
She could read nothing in his face. 

‘‘ Pardon me,” he said. “ Dr. Spooner says there 
is no change. He may die within the hour or he may 
live for years. We have sent to New York for nurses 
and another doctor. They get here this afternoon. 
He — he is hopelessly paralysed. There was an apo- 
plectic stroke as well. So, you see, it is impossible to 
tell what the outcome will be.” 

She shuddered. Her lips parted, but in horror, not 
in the effort to speak. 

“ I can’t leave her just now,” he went on painfully. 

It wouldn’t be right. I can’t do it, not even for 
you, Mary. She wants me to come in there now. Go, 
please, and try to forget that I ever — ” He could not 
complete the sentence, but turned away to hide his 
twitching lips and moist eyes. 

She waited for a long time before speaking. Her 
heart was aching as it had never ached before. 

“ Listen, John,” she said at last, “ let me ask this 
question: when were you told the truth about yourself, 
and by whom.?^ ” 

He faced her reluctantly. “ Last night. She told 
me. We were sitting in this room. He — oh, why 
should we go into all this.? I can’t talk about it. 
Good-bye, Mary. Don’t stay a minute longer. You 
must go.” 

“Yes, John,” she said gently. “I will go now. I 
won’t ask you to tell me anything more. I don’t want 
to hear it. But, listen to me, dear : nothing — nothing 
in all this world, can alter my love for you, nothing 


THE MORNING IN HANDY STREET 399 


can come between us. It is you I love. Do you un- 
derstand? ” She went up to him and laid her hands 
on his shoulders. There was a wonderful sweetness in 
her voice. 

“ My little Mary,” he murmured, shaken by a mighty 
storm of emotion. He put his hands to her cool white 
cheeks and kissed her on the brow: not the kiss of pas- 
sion, but of boundless adoration. 

She smiled, her eyes looking full into his: a smile 
so steadfast and grave that he was never to forget it. 

‘‘ Let me know, John, if there is anything I can do 
for — you,” she said simply. ‘‘ I will come if you 
need me.” 

She passed from the room and out of the house. He 
followed her to the door. She did not look back. When 
she was out of sight beyond the row of houses, he 
turned back, a great sigh escaping his lips. His feet 
dragged, his shoulders drooped as he crossed the parlour 
and drew aside the curtains. 

The bedroom beyond was darkened. Closed shut- 
ters and drawn shades kept out the cheerful morning 
sun. The habit of darkening a sickroom still obtained 
in Corinth. In the corner beyond the window was the 
bed, white against the shadowy walls. Heavy, sterto- 
rous breathing came from the lungs of the motionless 
figure that stretched its length limply under the cover- 
let. There was no other sound to be heard about the 
house. Only this ghastly breathing. Payson stopped 
in the doorway, his heart sick with sudden, overwhelm- 
ing pity for the once strong, virile man he had known 
all his life as a friend, steadfast and true. Whatever 
else, he was a friend worth having. 

The Widow Payson sat near the foot of the bed. 
Either she did not hear the man at the door or she 


400 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


was indifferent to his presence in the room. At any 
rate, she did not look up, but kept her chin lowered and 
her eyes closed. She rocked gently, mechanically, in 
the low old-fashioned chair. 

He watched her in silence for a few minutes. A 
great sob welled up in his throat, his eyes smarted with 
the rush of tears. Going to her side, he dropped to 
his knees and began kissing the worn, bony hand of 
the woman who sat sentinel over the man who was his 
father. 

She opened her tired, dry eyes, and after a moment 
smiled. 

“ Don’t cry, laddie,” she said, laying her hand ca- 
ressingly on his head. “ I am sorry I told you. He 
may never speak again. I could have gone to my grave 
with the secret safe, and you would never have been 
the wiser. It would have been better. He meant you 
never should know, and he was right. I betrayed him. 
Sometimes I think he knows that I have told you. It’s 
a queer feeling I have, with him lying there sense- 
less and unknowing. Yet I have the feeling that he 
heard me talking last night, that he is listening now. 
If he does know, he must be hating me with all his soul. 
He must be despising — ” 

“ Sh ! Don’t say that. Mother. Hate you ? Why, 
how could he hate yoUy — you who have done so much 
for him and for me.^^ Think of aU the years of mother- 
ing me.” 

“ All the years,” she sighed. ‘‘ Thirty odd. And 
now they’re behind me, with only blank ones ahead. 
Ah, my little laddie, it is I who have suffered the 
cruelest blow, after all, and all through my own folly. 
WHiy couldn’t I have held my stupid tongue? But I 
thought he was dying. I thought the end had come^ 


THE MORNING IN HANDY STREET 401 


I was terrified. To think of him dying like that — 
strong, healthy man that he was. And you not know- 
ing he was your own father. Why, I — I just couldn’t 
keep it back. Alack! It has cost him nothing, nor 
has he gained more than he had before, but I have lost 
my laddie, — I have lost my little sonnie.” 

She buried her face in her hands and rocked back 
and forth in the chair, moaning as old women moan 
when stricken deep. Old women ! The years have 
spared them the strength to moan; the shrill outcry 
is no longer their tribute to pain or grief. And yet 
what shriek of despair is more potent than the humble 
groan of an old woman 

He put his arm about her thin shoulders and drew 
her head close to his breast. 

‘‘ Don’t say that. Mother dear,” he said, with infinite 
gentleness. “ You will always be mother to me. There 
never will come a time when I will think of you as 
anything else. You are my dear little mother. Why, 
how can I think of you as being anything but mother? 
It is not possible. Do you think that a single day 
can wipe out the thing I have believed ever since I can 
remember? Haven’t you always been mother to me? 
Can you expect me to forget that you are mother and 
then look upon that strange man over there as father? 
It isn’t possible. It never can be possible. He is not 
^ father ’ to me, nor can you ever be anything but 
^ mother.’ ” 

“ Ah, John, you do not understand,” she argued pa- 
tiently. ‘‘ The truth is out. Nothing can overcome 
that — not your reasoning, nor your love, nor your 
loyalty. I am not your mother. You may say what 
you like, but down deep in your heart I am not what I 
was to you yesterday — and all the years before yes- 


’402 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


terday. You have lost a mother. You cannot put 
me back where I was yesterday. I did not bring you 
into the world. You never saw your mother, but you 
never can put away from you the fact that she once 
lived and bore you. You cannot think of me as you 
must think of her — ” 

‘‘ Listen, Mother,” he interrupted,^ “ listen to me. 
Haven’t I always thought of Henry Payson as my 
father.? In spite of that man there, in spite of what 
I know to be true, I shall always think of Henry 
Payson as ‘father.’ I cannot help it. It’s in here 
somewhere — in my brain, in my heart. Just as you 
are in here. What was the other woman to me.? Not 
even a memory. I never saw Henry Payson, yet you 
know what he has always been to me. My father.” 

“ Hush, J ohn,” she cautioned, with a quick glance 
at the pallid face of Adam Carr. “ He may be able 
to hear. He may understand.” 

“Understand.? What if he does? He has always 
understood. It would be nothing new to him. He has 
expected nothing of me — he has asked for nothing 
except my friendship. Ah, I begin to understand some 
things myself. I know now why I have always liked, 
always admired Adam Carr. I know why I have al- 
ways depended on him, and been guided by him. He 
had the right to govern ; he had the right to claim what 
Nature had given him.” 

“ Poor man,” sighed the Widow Payson. “ He was 
a better father to you than most fathers are to the 
boys who know them as such. All his life he has been 
thinking of you, doing for you, saving for you. I 
have seen his will. In it there is no mention of the 
relationship that exists, but everything he possesses 


THE MORNING IN HANDY STREET 403 


goes to ‘John Payson, son of my old friend Henry 
Payson, deceased.’ Even after his death, you were not 
to know. He has told me a thousand times that it 
would wreck your life if you ever came to know. It 
was his will and I obeyed. Nothing could change him, 
nothing could break him. I never knew a man so set in 
his ways. But you could tell that by his face. And 
you, John, are like him in a good many ways. You 
never flinch, you never give in. Ah, how many times 
have I said to myself ‘ like father, like son.’ ” 

“ Like him in every way,” said he bitterly. “ Mid- 
thome noticed it. He threw it in my face, — he threw 
Adam Carr’s face in mine. I shall never forget that. 
Nor shall I ever forget that I resented it more on Adam 
Carr’s account than my own, strange as it may seem. 
You see. Mother, I’ve known my real father all my life 
and I’ve loved him always.” 

“ You must ask God to forgive you for the harsh, 
cruel things you said to him last night, before the 
stroke came,” she said. 

“ God understands everything,” said he. “ My 
heart was full of misery. For the first time in his life, 
Adam Carr taunted me. He laughed at me when I 
commanded him to dispel the doubts my mind had fixed 
on.” 

“ He was beside himself,” she explained. “ You 
were driving him too hard. I could see the sweat on 
his brow.” 

He shuddered. “What a horrible thing it was! 
What a dreadful night 1 ” 

“ It came upon him, even as he laughed. I — I 
wonder if God struck him for that.” There was awe 
in the old woman’s face. 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


‘‘ I wonder,” he repeated after her. 

The events of the preceding night may be chron- 
icled in few words. 

Adam Carr was coming to have tea with them in the 
evening. Mrs. Pay son and John waited for him until 
long past the hour signified, — one that he had been 
in the habit of observing as long as they could remem- 
ber, — but as he did not appear they sat down without 
him. She had remarked a curious depression in his 
manner when he dropped in shortly after the morning 
service. He seemed unusually “ down in the mouth,” 
as she expressed it, and significantly inquisitive as to 
the whereabouts of her son. He never spoke of him 
except as ‘‘ her son.” After a restless, preoccupied ten 
minutes, he left, with the statement that he was going 
off for a long walk on Stone Wall. He would be back 
for tea at half-past six. When he did not appear at 
that hour, nor up to eight o’clock, she suggested to 
John that he make inquiry of old Jabez, and, failing 
there, in other directions. 

At ten o’clock John met him in the road, half-way 
to' Bud’s Rock. He was slowly walking homeward. 
The moon was high and full, and the thick, familiar 
figure was distinguishable for a long distance on the 
shell road. 

He gave no satisfactory answer to John’s impatient 
questions, but testily said that he had gone off to think 
something over where he would not be disturbed. A 
matter, he said, that was of the gravest importance. 
Payson quite naturally thought he had reference to 
an important piece of secret service work. 

Adam accompanied the young man to his home, and 
went in to say good night to Mrs. Payson and to 
apologise for his unprecedented rudeness in forgetting 


THE MORNING IN HANDY STREET 405 


tea. He acted so queerly that Jack insisted on going 
down to the hotel with him. His eyes were uncom- 
monly prominent and stary, and his face was livid; his 
breathing was hard, his lips sagged instead of holding 
the firm, rigid line that always marked them. 

He sat listless and morose in the big chair before 
the fireplace. The night-air from the sea had chilled 
liim to the marrow. Payson set about to cheer him 
up. He began by telling him of Horace Blagden’s re- 
markable after-service concession. Carr picked up his 
ears while John was commenting on Horace’s sudden 
change of front, and even entered into the discussion; 
sceptically, it is true, but not without interest. He ad- 
vanced the caustic opinion that Mr. Blagden was as 
playful as a tiger, and as safe to deal with. Neverthe- 
less, he was keenly interested in Jack’s opinion that 
Horace would no longer oppose the marriage. 

One obstacle was left in the way, John announced; 
it would have to be removed before he could conscien- 
tiously hold Mary to her promise, which had been re- 
newed that afternoon in no half-hearted terms. This 
led up to the question that lay so heavily in the lover’s 
mind. What was the nature of the mystery attending 
his own origin Adam’s slack lips straightened out 
in a hard, stubborn line; he briefly declared that there 
was nothing to tell. Payson interrupted the look that 
passed between the man and the woman, and flew into a 
quick passion. He demanded the truth from them. 
The time had come when even his mother’s feelings were 
not to be spared. 

Mrs. Payson began to cry softly. Adam Carr up- 
braided her, an act so unusual that John at first was 
rendered speechless by a sort of stupefaction. The 
situation was tense, dramatic. With a great dread in 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


^06 

his soul, the young man turned upon his mother and 
besought her to tell him the truth, no matter what the 
cost to him or to her. 

She shrank away from him mumbling piteously.. 
Then, he confronted Adam Carr. The older man looked 
up into the distorted face of the pleader and stubbornly 
insisted that there was nothing to tell. A sort of frenzy 
took possession of the young man. His manner be- 
came threatening. Adam continued to smile, but there 
was a hunted, imploring look in his eyes. He seemed 
to shrivel up in the chair, to grow older and weaker 
as he met the harsh charges without so much as a word 
of anger or resentment. 

Suddenly he began to laugh. 

“Good heaven!” cried John savagely. “What is 
there to laugh at? ” 

The senseless laughter continued for a moment, and 
then died away in a raucous gurgle. A purplish hue 
spread over Adam Carr’s face, his eyes bulged, his 
hands dropped limply from the arms of the chair. 

A long while afterward, as John worked feverishly 
with the stricken man, he became dimly conscious of 
the words his mother was moaning in his ear as she, 
too, leaned over the form of Adam Carr, now lying on 
the bed in the little room off the parlour. 

“He is your father, John,” she was saying. “Be 
good to him ! Don’t let him die. He is your own father. 
Do you hear me? Save him! Your own father! ” 

The blow had fallen. John Payson had got the truth 
at last. 

Later on, he received another and more devastating 
shock. He learned from her lips that the woman he 
had always known as his mother was not his mother; 


THE MORNING IN HANDY STREET 40T 


in no way was she related to him. The blow left him 
dazed, and quite as powerless as the paralysed creature 
on the bed. 

Mrs. Payson herself went forth and aroused a neigh- 
bour, who set off in haste to summon Dr. Spooner. 

John Payson was like his father in many ways. 
Among others, he possessed a wonderful power of self- 
control. In a surprisingly short time, he was able to 
face the crisis with as much composure and restraint as 
might have been expected of Adam Carr under similar 
circumstances. It was in the blood. 

In the kitchen, while the doctor was working over 
the unconscious man in the bedroom, he stood before 
the Widow Payson and listened to a story that went 
back thirty years and more, listened calmly and without 
interruptions until every word of it was told. Then 
he went back with her to sit beside the man who would 
not acknowledge him but who loved him so well that 
he would die with the secret locked in his heart. The 
father who would not put the blight upon him. 


And now, the morning after, they again sat by the 
bedside. 

“ Tell me once more,” said John gently, ‘‘ just how it 
was that she — my mother — came to you.” 

He had gone over to peer into the unseeing eyes of 
his father, as if to make sure that no sign of awakening 
intelligence was there. 

“ I am afraid,” she said nervously. ‘‘ If he should 
really be able to hear, he would curse me I am sure 
for—” 

“ Nonsense, Mother,” he said. He will live to 
bless you. Matters will be very simple after all this 


408 MARY MIDTHORNE 

is passed. He will thank you for giving him back his 
son.’^ 

“ Yes, for robbing myself of one,” she lamented. 

“ You will always be mother to me,” said he gently. 
“ Tell me again of her,^ — the other one. I have to get 
it all clearly in my mind. It’s vague now.” 

She repeated the story of how he came into the world 
and into her possession almost immediately after that 
event. Now she told it clearly, concisely, not distract- 
edly as in the night. She was a woman of few words, 
and always had been. Her prayers were short, morn- 
ing and night. She could not have made theiii long. 

Adam came to my husband one day and said that 
Lucy Barlow was in trouble. She was expecting a 
baby. He implored Henry to take her up to Halifax 
on the Lanigan, She was the dearest, sweetest girl 
in all Gloucester, I will say that, laddie. Her father 
was the captain of a whaler and was away for many 
months out of the year. Her mother was dead, so 
Lucy spent most of her time with an uncle who lived 
here in Corinth. In the summer time she went to Glou- 
cester to visit an aunt. But while she was here, w^e 
saw a great deal of her. She met Adam Carr at our 
house. He was already married, and he was very young 
— too young for the woman he was married to. He 
wasn’t more than twenty-three or twenty-four and she 
was thirty-five. They were not happy together. Well, 
of course, he fell in love with Lucy. That’s the long and 
the short of it. 

“They just couldn’t help themselves, it was that 
right and natural. Well, my husband asked me what 
we should do to help her, and I said at once that I 
would go up to Halifax with him on the next voyage 
and take Lucy along. Your father — I mean Adam 


THE MORNING IN HANDY STREET 409 


Carr, of course, — was boarding with us at the time. 
His wife lived in Gloucester. He persuaded Lucy to 
go with us, promising to come up as soon as he could 
arrange to do so. He was mate on his father’s fishing 
schooner and couldn’t get away at that time. It was 
his plan to get a divorce from his wife, but just how it 
was to be done I can’t say. It never did happen, but 
it didn’t matter in the end. She died a few years later. 
It’s a God’s pity she couldn’t have died before Lucy had 
her trouble. We took Lucy away on the Lanigan, 
I was to stay with her through it all, and the Lanigcm 
started back to Corinth. She went down with all on 
board just inside Eddy’s Islands on the awful night 
you’ve heard — oh, but I can’t speak of that ! My 
husband was lost. 

“ I left Lucy there and came back here to wait for 
the sea to give up my dead. My own baby was coming. 
Ah, it was a dreadful, dreadful time, my laddie. Well, 
one day, four or five months after the wreck, Adam 
Carr came to me with a letter from Lucy. She wanted 
him to come to her at once. I went with him by 
steamer. We got there just before you were bom. 
Lucy died the next day. Three weeks later my baby 
came, — a girl baby, and my only one. My little one 
died the day it was born, but Lucy’s lived and thrived. 

« It was then that Adam Carr suggested that I be 
mother to you, that you be known as Henry Payson’s 
boy as long as you should live. He begged so hard 
and I wanted my own baby so much that I — well, I 
fell in with his plan. That is how you came into the 
world and how you became John Payson, son of Henry 
Payson, lost at sea months before you were born. I 
have tried to be a good mother to you, laddie, all these 
years, and now — ” 


^10 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


He leaned over and kissed her, the tears streaming 
down his cheeks. She broke off in the middle of the 
lament to stroke his hand and murmur words of com- 
fort. 

Then, as if moved by a common impulse, they arose 
and stood together at the side of the man in the bed. 
He was staring straight up into their faces, and there 
was unmistakable intelligence in those bloodshot, bul- 
ging eyes. They drew back appalled. He knew ! He 
had heard and he understood ! 

Suddenly John stepped forward and tenderly laid 
his hand on Adam Carr’s forehead. He bent forward 
and said: 

“ It’s all right. Father. It’s all right.” 

Adam Carr’s eyes closed slowly. 

“ The New York doctor will be here at two, and the 
nurse also,” said the son, as much for the stricken man’s 
benefit as for the Widow Pay son. 

The outer door was opened, and someone entered 
the parlour. An odd expression came into John Pay- 
son’s face. His jaw fell; a look of utter dismay grew 
in his eyes. 

“ Why — why,” he began blankly, “ I don’t believe 
I told Mary that you are not my mother. I didn’t 
think. She must think that you — you are — ” 

Someone was rapping on the door casing not ten feet 
away, a gentle but imperative summons that cut short 
his wretched reflections. 

Who’s there ? ” he called out in subdued tones. 

It is I,” came back in Mary’s voice. “ I have come 
to see if I can help you and your mother.” 

He sprang forward and drew the curtains apart. 

^^Eric has telephoned from the Court-house that 


THE MORNING IN HANDY STREET 411 


everything is well witH him. So I came here as quickly 
as I could.” 

She came bravely into the room and looked at Adam 
Carr. 


i. 


CHAPTER XXII 


MR. cooper’s busy DAY 

It was by far the busiest day in the life of Mr. Joseph 
Cooper, editor. Do not overlook the fact that he was 
deprived of the right to publish the one great piece 
of news produced in Corinth and by Corinth some 
years prior to the prodigious doings of this day in 
April. At that time, you may remember, he got very 
drunk because he could not “ print the news.” On the 
present occasion he imbibed freely because he could 
print it. When you stop to consider that the Corinth 
Courier was made up largely of “ plate matter ” and 
standing ads,” and that Joseph was aided in the col- 
lection of sparse local news items by a youngster who 
could spell beautifully but had no definite idea when 
to do it, you may in a sense appreciate the magnitude 
of the task that confronted him. All in one day came 
three of the most startling “ stories ” Corinth had ever 
^ known. So all-absorbing were these items that a dis- 
astrous runaway on Main Street was completely over- 
looked by the bibulous scribe and his panic-stricken 
assistant, with the result that Mr. Peters, who had an 
; arm broken in the tumble f rom his waggon, ordered his 
paper stopped because no mention was made of the 
item.” What was the sense, said he, of having your 
arm broken in the most thrilling runaway of the year 
if the fool reporters didn’t put it in the paper? And 
he was right. What was the sense ? 

First of all, Joseph had the Hon. Horace Blagden’s 
412 


MR. COOPER’S BUSY DAY 4.1S 

wonderful gift to the City to “ write up.” That, in 
itself, was enough to bring out all that was in him for 
one day. Just as he was comfortably well under way 
on the job, — and long before his first drink of the day, 
— came those staggering developments at the Court- 
house. Before he could turn round, it seemed to him, 
the cry went up that Adam Carr, the celebrated de- 
tective, had been foully assassinated. From that time 
on Joseph did nothing but turn around; he fairly 
whirled. The cub reporter ran up and down-stairs so 
often that it got to be a habit with him, and he couldn’t 
stop. Two amiable and resourceful tramp printers, 
loafing in the composing room, came to the rescue. 
They went out and gathered up the stray ends of the 
news, put them together, and set type so rapidly and 
at such length that Joseph never quite recovered from 
his surprise and gratification. They ‘‘ lifted ” ads 
without discrimination and substituted live “ reading 
matter ” ; they chopped out ” columns of paid locals 
with a prodigality that cost Joseph as much as twenty 
dollars in “ trade ” ; they got the news and they printed 
the news; they transformed the Courier into a sicken- 
ing mass of typographical errors, — for no one was 
there to read proof on them, — but they turned out a 
‘‘ scarehead ” j ournal that Corinth never quite got over 
talking about. 

After it was all over, they drew their pay, — a stag- 
gering lot of ems they had set, by the way, — and pro- 
ceeded to get luxuriously tight, landing in gaol before 
midnight. Which produced another sensation for the 
cub reporter the next day. There had not been a po- 
lice court trial in a month. It was the cub reporter’s 
practice to make long visits in the town hall daily, be- 


414 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


iween trains, because it was cool there in the summer 
time and warm in the winter. Generally you could 
catch him napping there. 

The leading editorial in the Courier on this memora- 
ble day was not written by Mr. Cooper. It was in the 
shape of a proclamation, and it was written and signed 
by Horace Blagden in his private room at the bank. 
It crowded out the magnificent editorial tribute de- 
vised by Joseph Cooper to reflect, in an anticipatory 
sort of way, the boundless gratitude of the people who 
were to be benefited by the princely gift of Mr. Blag- 
den, “ exclusive mention of which may be found in an- 
other column of this issue.” 

This signed statement of Horace Blagden was more 
remarkable than anything that had ever appeared in 
the Courier, It may be set forth here in few words, 
although it covered more than an entire column of the 
newspaper. 

The father of Chetwynd Blagden took this means of 
announcing to the world that he held Eric Midthome 
absolutely blameless ! 

Moreover, he went on to say that he considered the 
taking off of his son to be the act of a just, all-wise 
Providence, “ whose ways, though strange and inscruta- 
ble, bring pain only to him who seeks to dispute them.” 
He declared, in no half-hearted terms, that he would 
stand at his unhappy nephew’s side during the trial that 
was to come, not as prosecutor but as defender, and that 
through him, the father, the spirit of Chetwynd Blag- 
den would rise to proclaim the innocence of the self- 
accused. It was his prayer that the case might be 
brought to trial without delay, and that justice might be 
appeased in the speedy acquittal of “ my beloved nephew, 
Eric Midthome.” 


MR. COOPER’S BUSY DAY 


415 


The name of Adam Carr was not mentioned. 

In another column, however, appeared the news of 
Mr. Carr’s illness. The one great feature of the story 
was missing, however, for the simple reason that it did 
not come to light. 

Mary Midthome prevailed. She was at the Payson 
cottage when the polite printer appeared, in eager pur- 
suit of the news. If he was disappointed to learn that 
there had been no assassination, he was careful to con- 
ceal the fact. In truth, he admitted cheerfully that 
he was “ blamed glad of it,” they were so hard pressed 
for time and room up at the Courier office. Mary 
kept John Payson from revealing more of the truth 
than was necessary concerning Adam Carr. The per- 
spiring printer went away directly, in possession of 
everything except the sensation involved. 

“ Why should you tell it to the world.? ” argued 
Mary, confronting Payson and his foster-mother in 
the kitchen, whither they had fled leaving the unsus- 
pecting doctor to tell what he knew to the interviewer. 
‘‘ He doesn’t acknowledge you as his son, why should 
you say he is your father.? Just four people know the 
truth, John. It has been a secret held by two people 
for more than thirty years. Why can’t we keep it to 
the very end.? Just you and I and Mrs. Payson. He 
will never speak.” 

Payson agreed to this, with the single provision that 
in due time Eric should be told. 

A week passed. In that period, Corinth came to 
appreciate the unfaltering growth of two conditions^ 
not unlike in character, but entirely foreign to eacK 
other. In one instance it was the devoted loyalty of 
Joan Bright to Eric Midthome; in the other, the sur- 
prising devotion of Mary Midthome to the sick man 


416 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


in the Widow Payson’s cottage. There was no specu- 
lation as to the attitude of Miss Bright, but in some 
quarters wonder was expressed over Mary’s behaviour. 
Corinth, in ignorance of the real situation, found some 
difficulty in satisfying itself as to an imaginary one. 
Of course, it was known that Mary and John were in 
llove with each other, but that was no reason why she 
should devote so much of her time to Adam Carr, out- 
sider. The man could not be moved, but as there were 
two nurses in the house to attend to him, with doctors 
making daily visits, it was not reasonable to suppose 
that Mrs. Payson depended on Mary for assistance. 
Moreover, Corinth was still unable to make out whether 
Adam was friendly to Mary’s brother. In any event, 
he was distinctly at odds with Horace Blagden, which 
was something. 

Before the end of the week, Adam Carr recovered the 
power of speech. He was hopelessly paralysed from 
the waist down. At first he spoke with an effort, but 
his indomitable will-power overcame the impediment; 
he articulated slowly but clearly. His mind was clear 
and active. He required the truth of the doctors. Get- 
ting it, he philosophised: 

“ There’s no sense in your waiting around here, J ack. 
I may hang on for ten years. Doctors can’t tell any- 
thing about it, but I’m such a tenacious individual that 
it’s not likely that I’ll give up the ghost without a long 
fight. Of course, I ought to be sensible and quit right 
now. Better for you, better for me, better for Mrs. 
Payson, better for everybody, if I could pass on to- 
night, but I guess it won’t be so easy as that. Nothing 
has ever been real easy for me. Even this won’t be 
easy. If I were you, I’d get back to New York and 


MR. COOPER’S BUSY DAY 


41T 


business. I’ll be lying here if you can find the time 
week ends, to come and see your mother and Mary. 
I don’t mind it so much, after all. A long rest will do 
me good. As you won’t hear to me being removed 
to a hospital, and your mother won’t either, I guess 
I’ll have to stay where I’m put. In a week or two I 
can be wheeled about in a chair, so it won’t be so bad. 
Now, listen to what I’ve got to say; get it firmly in 
your mind. So far as the world is concerned, I am 
never to be anything more to you than Mr. Adam. 
That’s what I’ve been for thirty years. I’ve never said 
I was anything else. I never will, not even to you. It 
won’t hurt the world any to keep on thinking your 
daddy is out there in the Atlantic, and that your mother 
is here instead of up there in the little graveyard at 
Gloucester. Horace Blagden, much as he’d like to, 
can’t rake either of them up. He only suspects half 
the truth. He doesn’t know about poor Lucy Barlow. 
Your mother here won’t mind being mother to you, 
right or wrong, till she dies. So just you go on think- 
ing of me as Mr. Adam, your best friend, and I’ll keep 
on being your best friend. All the King’s horses and 
all the King’s men can’t drag it out of me. When it 
comes time for me to die, and I know it, I may ask you 
to put your ear close to my lips’ so that I can whisper 
it to you, but it won’t be till then, and it won’t be for 
anybody else’s ear. There’s only one other person that 
must be told. Eric’s got to know it before you make 
Mary your wife.” 

‘‘ But I’m not going to make her my wife,” said his 
son gently but firmly. 

“ Oh, yes, you are,” said Adam decisively. “ There’s 
no way ’round that. I’m not as good as Philip Mid- 


^418 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


thorne was, but Lucy Barlow was as good as most of 
the Blagdens. Don’t forget that, my lad. Ask your 
mother. She knew her.” 

“ Ask my mother I ” repeated John Payson, with a 
bitter smile. 

“ I didn’t mean it to sound funny. Jack,” said Adam 
humbly. 

A day or two later, old Jabez hobbled up to see his 
son. He stood at the bedside, peering quizzically at 
the occupant, on whose lips there was a distorted grin 
of welcome. 

“ Well, Father, how are you.? ” 

“ Just so-so, Adam,” replied the ancient. 

‘‘ Rheumatism any better? ” 

“ Some.” 

There was a period of silent regard. Then old 
Jabez found the words he wanted. 

“ It’s a blamed shame, Adam. I don’t see why the 
good Lord didn’t do this to me, ’stead of you. It 
wouldn’t ha’ made any dilference if it had been me, but 
— but it don’t seem right for you to be lyin’ here like 
this an’ me skippin’ about as spry as ever. It don’t 
seem right.” 

“ Nonsense,” said Adam, cheerfully. “ How old are 
you, Father? ” 

“ Eighty odd last January. Dang it, you ain’t even 
sixty. That’s why it’s wrong.” 

“ No,” said Adam, your eighty odd years proves 
it to be right. Nature makes us pay as we go. You 
kaven’t any scores to settle with Nature. That’s why 
you’re eighty odd and spry. And, now, how are the 
squirrels? ” 

“ Well, sir,” said Jabez, sitting down in the chair 


MR. COOPER’S BUSY DAY 


41^ 


that had been placed for him, they’re gettin’ so blamed 
fresh that there ain’t no livin’ with ’em. The whole 
caboodle of ’em got in the house yesterday when I was. 
takin’ a nap, and, dang me, if they didn’t find that 
barril of peanuts you sent down last month. When I 
w^oke up, by gosh, I couldn’t hardly get out of the 
door fer peanut shells. Fust I thought there’d been 
a sudden snowstorm, but they cracked so loud when I 
stepped on ’em I knowed it couldn’t be that. Then I 
got to the door and see them fool critters settin’ around 
on the grass out there in front, so cussed fat that I 
thought they’d bust. They jest couldn’t wobble. You. 
never in all your life, Adam, see such idiotic lookin’^ 
things as they wuz. A hundred of ’em! Squattin’' 
around the place, kinder pitiful like. Cussin’ them 
didn’t do no good. They jest looked back and twigged 
their tails feeble the more I cussed. And you can’t give- 
a squirrel paregoric like you can a baby.” 

And now you have an idea of what Nature had begun, 
to do for Jabez Carr. 

But I am getting ahead of my story. Adam Carr 
did not recover his speech until after the brief, per- 
functory trial of Eric Midthome was over and the 
young man stood honourably acquitted. The de- 
fendant’s story was not even assailed by the common- 
wealth. There was no voice to dispute his claim of self- 
defence, no witness to cast the remotest doubt upon the 
statement he made. The only human being who might 
have spoken for or against him, was powerless to utter 
an intelligible sound. 

When John Pay son entered the sick-room and calmly 
announced to his mother that the jury had discharged 
Eric without leaving the box, and on the advice of the 


420 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


Court himself, Adam Carr opened his eyes and spoke 
aloud for the first time since he was stricken the week 
before. 

“ I knew they would,” he said with an effort, but 
quite distinctly, to the great amazement of the doctor 
and the nurse. The Widow Payson and John were not 
surprised. They understood the inscrutable ways of the 
man. 

The machinery of the law never worked so fast as in 
the case of the State vs. Eric Midthorne. Five days 
after he surrendered himself to the sheriff, his case was 
called for hearing. The court-room was crowded, for 
the Courier had announced the trial day arid hour. No 
one was there in the hope of finding fresh sensations, 
but to hear the story of the fight from the lips of the 
victor himself. 

Inside the railing sat the entire bar of the city. Judge 
Oswald Bright came over from the Capital and occupied 
a seat on the bench beside the Court. His daughter 
sat with Mary Midthorne at the defendant’s table. 
Horace Blagden and his wife had seats so close to Eric 
that they could lean forward and whisper in his ear, an 
oft-repeated act which sent a thrill of approbation 
through the big audience, and had a moral though ut- 
terly wasted effect on the jury. 

The preliminaries were brief. Mr. State’s Attorney 
Collins read the affidavit on information and belief and 
called his only witness — the sheriff of the county, who 
merely testified that the prisoner at the bar was the man 
mentioned in the instrument and that he had openly con- 
fessed to the slaying of Chetwynd Blagden. The state 
rested. The audience leaned back with an audible 
breath of relief. 

The defence very naturally moved to quash the indict- 


MR. COOPER’S BUSY DAY 


421 


ment on the ground that the corpus delicti had not been 
established, but formally withdrew the motion a moment 
later, as a part of the programme, to permit Eric Mid- 
thorne to tell his story on the stand. The audience lis- 
tened with breathless interest to the recital, dividing its 
attention between the young man in the box and the 
grey haired parents of Chetwynd Blagden, watching 
with eager eyes for some sign of animosity on their part. 
If the people expected or hoped for a demonstration 
they were disappointed. The Blagdens sat very still 
and erect, their pinched backs to the multitude, their 
heads twisted slightly toward the witness, from whose 
face their gaze was not once removed during the uninter- 
rupted recital. At its conclusion they turned ex- 
pectantly toward the state’s attorney. 

“No questions, your honour,” announced that officer 
of the commonwealth. 

Horace Blagden’s figure straightened perceptibly. A 
moment later his own name was called. He arose slowly, 
— at any other time we would have said pompously, — ► 
and slipped into the witness box. A stir swept through 
the crowd. Here was a sensation, after all. 

Facing the judge, the great man of Corinth took the 
oath, his right hand uplifted. It did not tremble. He 
then testified to the reputation of the defendant for 
truth and veracity, and to his standing in the community. 
That was all. He gave it clearly, unfalteringly. He 
was not asked if he were the father of the deceased. It 
was as the first citizen of Corinth that he testified. One 
could have been excused for smiling at the theatric dis- 
play of self-regard that overshadowed the real intention 
of the man. The great man of Corinth was speaking. 
No one could have asked for more than that. 

Horace Blagden did not mean to place himself in a 


422 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


false position. He was intensely sincere in liis desire to 
dissipate all doubt in the minds of the townspeople as to 
his attitude toward his nephew. No more convincing 
way could have presented itself, he argued, than this 
opportunity to pubhcly repeat the sentiment embodied 
in his earlier newspaper expression. Adam Carr, when 
he heard of the act, uttered an opinion that no one else 
dared to voice. 

“ Old Horace simply can’t help it. It’s bom in him. 
When he dies, by the grace of God, he’ll lie in state. 
And no matter how dead he is, he’ll know he’s lying in 
«tate.” 

The judge instructed the jury to find for the de- 
fendant, and Eric was discharged from custody almost 
before you could have counted twelve. 

The whole affair was so palpably predestined that 
it savoured of travesty, and yet there was a seriousness 
about it all that could not be mistaken. The law itself 
did not come in for much consideration. So far as the 
real legal aspects of the case were concerned, all prece- 
dents were violated. But no one cared about that. Not 
a single soul in all Corinth desired the punishment of 
Eric Midthorae. Corinth, therefore, was the law. 

. Eric’s trial was much the same as a wedding or a 
' funeral: a matter of a few very important minutes and 
then everybody going about his own business as if it 
hadn’t occurred. The wedding means a great deal to* 
the fellow who is getting married, and the funeral is 
of the utmost importance to the chap who is being 
buried, but the world does not care a scrap what happens 
to either of them after it is all over. Most of us get 
married, and all of us die. People come and see us do 
both, if the opportunity presents itself, and go away 


MR. COOPER’S BUSY DAY 


423 > 


thoroughly satisfied that it is the end of the matter so 
far as they are concerned. 

Corinth would have stepped up and congratulated 
Eric on his acquittal if it could have done so with pro- 
priety. But there had been ample time for reflection., 
The magnanimous Blagdens were to he considered. 
How would it appear to them if everyone rushed up to 
shake hands with the destroyer of their only son.^^ 
Dreadful! So Corinth, or as much of it as could be 
crowded into the court-room, considerately effaced itself 
as soon as the verdict was given. 

While the crowd was leaving the court-room, the judge 
on the bench calmly turned to the clerk and said : 

‘‘ Call the next case, Mr, Clerk.” 

The regular panel remained in the jury box; the 
sheriff went over to the telephone and called up the 
gaol ; and half an hour later a dissolute sailor from the 
water front was on trial for stealing a pound of to- 
bacco, and the state’s attorney was working his head off,, 
so to speak, to secure the maximum penalty. One has 
to make an example of such chaps, you see. Society de- 
mands it. 

The Rev. Mr. Presbrey alone came forward to con- 
gratulate Eric, regardless of the presence of the Blag- 
dens or the fitness of the occasion. With tears in his 
eyes, he wrung the embarrassed young man’s hand with 
a vigour that suggested something long pent-up and 
thriving. 

‘‘ Thank you, Mr. Presbrey,” muttered Eric, very un- 
comfortable. 

« We’ve been praying for you, Eric,” said Mr. Pres- 
brey ; “ Mrs. Presbrey and I. Ah, my dear young 


424 < 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


friend, you do not know how greatly this will please my 
wife, your most devoted friend. She is indisposed to- 
day. Otherwise she would have accompanied me here. 
But her heart is here, her thoughts are here.” 

‘‘ Good morning, Arthur,” said Horace Blagden pleas- 
antly. “ I am sorry to hear that Julia is ill. Nothing 
serious, I hope.” 

Mr. Presbrey’s eyes flew wide open. He stared for a 
moment. Then his face turned a deep pink. 

“ Not at all, not at all,” he stammered, completely 
taken aback. “ Merely a cold, Mr. Blagden. In the 
head.” 

“ Please remember us to her,” said Mr. Blagden, slip- 
ping his arm through Eric’s. “ Oh, by-the-by, Ar- 
thur,” he went on after an instant’s reflection, “ will it 
be convenient for you to drop in to see me at the bank 
to-morrow.^ Any hour will do. I want to talk over a 
question in connexion with the new library.” 

Mr. Presbrey stiffened. I have read something 
about it,” he said. 

‘‘ Do you think Julia will be well enough to come to 
dinner to-morrow evening?” asked Mrs. Blagden. 
‘‘ Then you two could have the whole evening to your- 
selves in the library.” 

“ Good ! ” said her husband genially. “ And we could 
have the architect there to assist us. What do you say, 
Presbrey? ” 

Mr. Presbrey’s face was a study. 

“I — I — dear me, dear me ! ” he faltered, nervously 
fumbling for his handkerchief. Finding it, he blew his 
nose rather aimlessly and then repeated : “ Dear me ! ” 

They were waiting for an answer. He cleared his 
throat. ‘‘ Really, I — I — yes, yes, it’s very good of 
you, I am sure. Dear me ! Of course, you understand, 


MR. COOPER’S BUSY DAY 


4^5 


it is only a cold in the head. I fancy she will be quite 
rid of it by to-morrow. Mustard foot bath to-night. 
Yes, yes ! Hot mustard for a cold head — cold in the 
head, I should say. Dear me! It will seem quite like 
old times, my dear friends.” 

Horace was enjoying himself. Afterwards he con- 
fessed to a certain meanness of spirit, a delicious sensa- 
tion of malice ; but quite pardonable, he argued, in view 
of the fact that he was returning good for evil. Eric, 
the only other witness beside Mrs. Blagden, actually felt 
sorry for the distressed ex-minister. 

“ Except that we all have grown older and wiser,’^ 
supplemented Mr. Blagden. 

Mr. Presbrey made haste to accept the amendment. 

And better, I hope,” he said. He did not know it, but 
that was a master-stroke. As a matter of fact, in re- 
peating the amazing conversation to his wife, he quite 
forgot to mention the remark. 

“We dine at seven, Mr. Presbrey,” said Mrs. Blag- 
den. 

He responded bravely. “ Instead of six-thirty ? ” 

Ah! Here was tribute to the memory of old times! 

“ I shall also ask Mr. King to come in,” said Horace, 
in the most matter-of-fact way. 

Mr. Presbrey drew a long breath. “I shall rejoice 
in the opportunity to meet him,” he said desperately. 
“ You said six-thirty ” 

“ Seven,” said Horace. Then, as if recognising an 
oversight, he extended his hand. Mr. Presbrey was on 
the point of blowing his nose again. He hastily 
switched the handkerchief to his left hand, and clasped 
the ends of Mr. Blagden’s fingers in his right. It was 
not much of a hand-shake, but it seemed to put new life 
into him. At least, he breathed with less difficulty. 


426 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


He went home to Julia in a perfect maze of bewilder- 
ment. She not only took a mustard foot bath ex- 
ternally but nine grains of quinine the other way. 

In the corridor of the Court-house, Eric, walking be-* 
tween his uncle and aunt with his arms through theirs, 
* burst out feelingly: 

I “ Uncle Horace, you are wonderful, really wonder- 
ful.” 

Mr. Blagden smiled, self-satisfied. Paying off all 
the old scores, Eric,” he said gravely. 

A little group was waiting for them at the top of the 
stairway. John Payson quietly detached himself from 
the rest and started down-stairs as they approached. 

Just a moment, John, if you please,” said Mr. Blag- 
den, raising his voice slightly. “ This is a day for re- 
newing old acquaintances, old friendships. Will you 
shake hands, sir? ” 

Payson did not hesitate. He clasped the banker’s 
hand. 

“ Certainly, sir. Is this your verdict? ” 

Mr. Blagden was puzzled. He looked into the young 
man’s steady eyes for a moment; then the doubt was 
lifted from his own. 

“ It is,” he said succinctly, and Payson knew that at 
last he was acquitted of complicity in the bank defalca- 
tion. An instant later Horace remarked : ‘‘ I am a 

just man. By-the-by,” he went on, how is Adam 
Carr to-day? ” 

‘‘ There is no change- Mr. Blagden, I am sorry to say. 
He will never speak again, sir.” 

Then Horace Blagden uttered a remarkable prophecy. 

“ I know him well. Pie will speak in his own good 
time. A strange, unaccountable man, John. A secret 
man. I have been thinking of him in the last few days. 


MR. COOPER’S BUSY DAY 


m 

thinking a great deal. Perhaps you will not mind say- 
ing to him that I have expressed a desire to come and see 
him some day. He will hear you.” 

He left Payson standing there, staring after him with 
a look of wonder in his eyes. 

Joan Bright went up to the grey house on the hill 
with the two Midthomes. In the dim old library she 
abruptly faced Eric, holding out her hands to him. 
There were tears of utter joy and gladness in her eyes. 

“ Eric,” she said softly, “ I truly believe I am the 
only one who has not changed. I am still just what I] 
was in the beginning.” 

He lifted her hands to his lips. “ Love does not 
change,” he said, a deep thrill in his voice. It goes on 
just the same until it is killed, but it does not change 
while it is alive. Love is life, that is the secret of it. 
Ah, it is good to be alive, after all. Yesterday I could 
have died. To-day I shudder at the thought of it. I 
love to-day because you are the very heart of it, you are 
the life of it. It throbs with you, Joan darling. To- 
day I love life because I love you.” 

And because I love you,” she added. 

Mary was a silent, enchanted listener. Her eyes 
glowed with the deep, mysterious light, her lips moved 
with their lips. 

She waited until he took Joan in his arms. Then she 
stole quietly from the room. They did not hear, they 
did not see. They had forgotten her. She went up- 
stairs and took up the portrait of a man from her dress- 
ing table. She kissed it and held it tight to her breast, 
and was no longer lonely. 

At last Joan remembered. With a quick start of 
confusion she released herself from Eric’s arms, and 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


turned a burning face, expecting to meet the smile of 
the girl who had come into the library with them. 

“ Oh, I wonder — ” she began, after a searching 
glance about the room which revealed no living witness 
to the ancient encounter. 

She straightened her hat. What a dear, dear girl 
she is ! ” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


THE CUP IS FULL 

Jabez Carr sat outside his cottage on a warm spring 
afternoon a fortnight after the trial of Eric Midthorne. 
There had been six funerals at the Seaman’s Home dur- 
ing the past two days, and Jabez was reflective. Some- 
thing certainly was wrong at headquarters. He could 
not understand why the grim reaper had been allowed 
such privileges. Gross neglect on somebody’s part ; that 
was quite clear. Six in two days! Why, said he to 
himself, it must have been downright criminal careless- 
ness on the part of the confounded ship’s surgeon, let- 
ting able-bodied, healthy people die like that. Not one 
of them was a day over seventy-five, he calculated, — 
not a single one of them. There had been no epidemic 
that he was aware of, — no cholera, no small-pox, no 
anything that you could put your finger on. Then, 
what the dickens did they mean down there, letting peo- 
ple die before their time? There ought to be an in- 
vestigation, a very rigid one, said Jabez firmly. Come 
to think of it. Jack Beason, bo’s’n, was nigh onto 
eighty, but he was as spry as a rabbit the last time 
he came up to the gate. What business had he to be 
dying? 

Somehow, without really giving a thought to it, the 
ancient gate-keeper sought out the only spot where the 
sunshine struck brightly through the tree-tops, and 
there he placed his stool. It occurred to him that the 
warm sun was unusually grateful to his bones. No 
doubt, it was the gloom of those six funerals that had 
429 


430 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


got into his marrow, but there was no getting around 
the fact that the sunshine had a most pleasing effect. 

The sun’s rays struck the comer of the cottage where 
the rain-barrel stood. So it was there that he put his 
stool. With rare inconsistency he leaned his back 
against the damp staves of the barrel, and smoked his 
pipe in blissful contempt of the rheumatism and other 
ills that lay behind him. Sunshine! No one ever came 
to grief by getting too much sunshine; that is, if one 
didn’t overdo it. The days seemed shorter than they 
used to be anyway, thought Jabez. You could get up 
at sunrise, attend to a few things here and there, and 
the first thing you knew the sun was setting. And the 
nights, too, seemed shorter of late. Better get what 
little sunshine there was, said he. 

But six in two days! Yes, sir, there was something 
radically wrong somewhere. He sat up suddenly, con- 
fronted by an uncanny question: would there be more 
funerals on the morrow? 

The squirrels frisked about him unnoticed. They sat 
up on their tails and waited with admirable patience for 
him to hurl sticks at them. They listened for the mild 
epithets with which he hectored them. 

But he puffed on at his cold pipe, and his thoughts 
were far away. 

A strong voice called out a greeting to him. He 
awoke from his long reverie with a start. The sun had 
moved away from the rain-barrel and gleamed warm 
against the cottage wall, a dozen paces to the left. 

Four young people were standing before him. He 
rubbed his eyes, blinked, and then shook the tobacco 
from his pipe. 

“ What day is this ? ” he asked hazily, coming to his 
feet. 


THE CUP IS FULL' 


431 


“ Sunday, Uncle Jabe,” said Eric. 

He looked relieved. ‘‘ There won’t be any to-day,’^ 
he said. “ They never have ’em on Sundays.” WitH 
which, the thought of funerals passed away. His face 
brightened. The jolly twinkle returned into his eyes. 
!A vast politeness seized him. 

Glad to see you, glad to see you,” he exclaimed. 
‘‘Here, Eric, and you. Jack, trundle out them rockers 
for the young ladies. Be spry about it. Scat! You 
little divils! ” This to the joyous squirrels. “ I’m un- 
common pleased to see you. Miss Joan. It’s a great 
honour.” He carefully wiped his hand on his trousers 
leg, and extended it to meet hers. He then shook hands 
with Mary, going farther, however, to pat the little 
fingers with his free hand, a feat which compelled him 
to restore the pipe to his lips, where it wobbled uncer- 
tainly, deprived of its usual support. “ Someone has 
been teUin’ me of the weddings that is to be. For the 
life of me, I can’t tell who it was.” 

“ It was I, Uncle Jabe,” said Eric, coming up with one 
of the chairs. 

“ So it was,” said Jabez, visibly relieved. “ I’m get- 
tin’ so danged forgetful. Well, Jack, how is Adam to- 
day? ” 

“ Very comfortable,” said Payson, “ He sends his 
love to you.” 

“ Fine boy, Adam is, — a wonderful boy,” mused the 
ancient. “ Set down, gir — young ladies. Git out o’ 
this, dang ye ! ” He clapped his hands vigorously upon 
his legs and several audacious quadrupeds scuttled off in 
amazement but not in fear. “ Double weddings is good 
luck, powerful good luck,” he went on, drawing up his 
stool. “ Except in one case I remember of. That was 
when Dick Fink, as fine a chap as ever lived, had a double 


4S2 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


wedding all of his own. He got married twice in one 
week to different gals in different ports. Well, sir, when 
them two gals found out what he’d been up to, they 
turned in and got him put in gaol an’ made life so mis- 
erable for him that he was glad to go to the penitentiary 
for five years. When did you leave New York, Jack? ” 

“ Yesterday.” 

“ I suppose she’s all there? I must go down an’ have 
a look at her one o’ these days. I ain’t been to New 
York since the war, forty odd year ago. Let’s see, Eric, 
you said June, didn’t you ? ” 

The tenth of June, at Uncle Horace’s house. You 
will come to see us married, of course ? ” 

Mr. Carr looked dubious. ‘‘ If I can get someone to 
tend gate for me. I don’t know as I can get anyone, 
though. Maybe there won’t be anyone left by that 
time. What’s this I hear about old Presbrey being 
made boss of the new library? That’s all wrong. It 
hadn’t ought to be. That’s just plain cussed interfer- 
ence by Horace Blagden. This here new preacher, Mr. 
King, is the right man for the place. He’s a splendid 
feller. I had no idee a preacher could be such a gentle- 
man. See this here new pipe? Well, sir, he brought it 
down to me last week with a dozen packages o’ Yale' 
mixture. Says he, it ain’t wrong to smoke, any more’n 
itds to eat. By ginger, I don’t see what’s come over 
the church these days. Old Presbrey used to say I’d go 
to hell if I smoked. I told him onct I’d sooner be in 
hell smokin’ than in heaven not doin’ it. No, sirl A 
man o’ them narrow idees ain’t got no business runnin’ 
a public library. He’ll make a terrible mess of it, he 
will. Why, how can a feller read without a pipe in his 
mouth? It’s — ” Words failed him. He waved his 
hands to complete the opinion. 


THE CUP IS FULL 


4S3 


Four very happy young people laughed aloud, 
greatly to his dismay. He mumbled an apology and 
got up to shoo the squirrels away. 

“ Next time that little cuss comes pesterin’ around 
you, Miss Joan, hit him a good one side the head,” he 
remarked gruffly. 

“ I wouldn’t strike it for the world,” cried Joan. 

“ You’d better not,” said Jabez sharply, before he 
could think. 

His subsequent humility was wonderful to behold. 

“ Can you guess. Uncle Jabe,” began Eric, “ what 
we’d all like, most of anything in the world ? ” 

His eyes twinkled. “ Yes, sir, I da know,” said he 
with a fine wink. The girls blushed. 

« We’ve come to spend the afternoon listening to 
those good old stories of yours,” said Eric hastily. 
‘‘ That’s what we want. Joan has never heard you tell 
stories.” 

“ I want to hear the very best you have in that won- 
derful head of yours. Uncle Jabe,” said Joan. 

“ I like the one about the pirate — ” began Mary 
eagerly. 

But Jabez shook his head. 

“ They was all lies, — terrible, ungodly lies,” he said, 
very solemnly. “ It’s wrong to tell ’em.” 

“ We know they are lies,” cried Mary. “ That is 
always understood at the beginning, and that’s why we 
love them so dearly.” 

“No, sir,” said Jabez firmly. “I can’t do it. It 
ain’t right. Mr. King has been talkin’ to me about 
rectitude and honour in old age. He says it’s wrong to 
lie, ’specially at my time o’ life. So I guess I’ll have to 
disappoint you.” 

They were disappointed. “ Just one or two, Uncle 


'434 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


Jabe,” pleaded Joan. “ We’ll never ask it of you again. 
Two or three whoppers won’t hurt, I am sure, if we 
know they — ” 

“ Can’t do it. Miss Joan,” said he stubbornly, but 
with an effort to subdue the wistful look in his old eyes. 
“ Nothing would please me better. I’d love to do it. 
But it ain’t right, as Mr. King says. I got to go by 
what he says.” 

Eric assumed an air of severity. ‘‘ Do you mean to 
say that the church has been meddling with your af- 
fairs?” 

“Meddling?” gasped Jabez. 

“ Yes, sir, meddling.” 

“ Go long with you, Eric,” exclaimed Jabez help- 
lessly. “ Lies is lies.” 

“ And Mr. King has put the hand of bigotry on your 
life? ” in fine scorn. 

“What’s that?” demanded Jabez, bristling. 

“ Don’t tease, Eric,” interposed Joan. 

“ The church has a great deal to answer for,” insisted 
Midthorne. “ Meddling like this with a man’s busi- 
ness.” 

“ Business ? ” murmured Jabez. “ Whose business ? ” 

“ Isn’t it your business to make people happy ? ” f 

“ Well, I guess it’s Mr. King’s business, too,” said he 
resignedly. “ He comes down here and tells me the 
truth about things and I see things in a new way from 
what I used to. Old Presbrey stretched the truth so 
that it looked mighty fishy to me. Mr. King puts it in 
a nutshell. If he says it’s wrong to lie, why it is, 
that’s all. Dang it all,” he exploded virtuously, “ I 
never see a pirate in my life. Nor a handsome princess 
either.” 

John Pay son spoke, with a twinkle in his eyes. “ Do 


THE CUP IS FULL 435 

you believe that everything in the bible is true, Uncle 
Jabe? ” 

Jabez glared at him. “ I’ll believe it all until some of 
you smart Alecks prove it ain’t true. I used to laugh at 
that tale about Jonar and the whale. Mr. King says 
it’s paregorical. I told him nobody could make me be- 
lieve a feller could live inside a whale’s belly, — bible er 
no bible. He said he didn’t believe it either. It’s just 
a paryble.” 

“ They are joking with you. Uncle Jabe,” said Mary, 
coming to his rescue. 

“ Of course, we are,” cried Eric warmly. ‘‘ We will 
not ask you to tell us any more lies. Mr. King is right. 
But you surely can’t object to telling us a few true 
stories.” 

Jabez Carr pondered. Well,” he said at last and 
with conviction, “ a story ain’t wuth tellin’ unless it’s a 
lie.” Then, to change the subject, which was more 
dangerous than he cared to admit : “ When do you 

start work on Judge Bright’s new house, Eric.? ” 

And so, instead of being entertained by him on this 
Sunday afternoon, they were content and eager to dis- 
cuss their own intimate affairs for his especial benefit, 
thereby doing much toward the support of Mr. King’s 
missionary efforts and at the same time adding consid- 
erable to their own estimate of what heaven really is. 

Jabez succeeded in grasping a few of the more im- 
portant details; a thousand trivial points escaped him. 
By dint of arduous questioning, he gathered that the 
ground was to be broken next week for the Bright man- 
sion ; that the plans for the great public library were well 
under way; that Jack and Mary were to live in New 
York City; that Eric and Joan were to make Corinth 
their home for a few years, at least; that the WidoTV 


436 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


Pajson would not hear to Adam’s removal to a sani- 
torium in the Adirondacks ; that Mr. Presbrey and Mr. 
King were bosom friends; that the former was prayer 
leader in the reconstructed First Church, and very sure 
about it ; that Mr. Blagden was a greater man than ever 
before; that Mrs. Blagden was an angel; that Corinth^' 


would be put on the map to stay ; that the world was a 
very wonderful abiding place, after all. 

One secret remained untold. He was never to know 
that one of the tall young men who sat there glibly 
talking was his own grand-son. 

He walked with them to the gate when the dusk of 
night began to fall. It had been a great afternoon for 
him, but a distressingly short one. Yes, they seemed to 
be growing shorter all the time. He leaned on the bars 
and watched them until they were out of sight among 
the trees. 

“ Funny thing,” he mused, ‘‘ but I can’t remember 
being so keen about things when I was their age. Times 
must have changed a whole lot. Still, I wonder. It 
was a long while ago. I guess a young feller is a young 
feller, no matter where you put him.” 

Then he went back, clucking to the squirrels. 


f; 


Adam Carr, propped up in his wheel chair, eyed a 
dark and threatening sky from the tiny lawn in front of 
the Widow Pay son’s house in Handy Street. There was 
an alertness in his eyes that contrasted sharply with the 
inertness of his body, which sagged in the depths of the 
chair. Late afternoon winds came gently up from the 
sea, bringing coolness to relieve the heat of this blister- 
ing day in May. 

Passers-by bespoke him from the sidewalk, along 
Xvhich they hurried in advance of the approaching storm. 


THE CUP IS FULL' 


437 

“ Riding at anchor in a safe cove,” said Adam to him- 
self and of himself. 

Mrs. Payson came to the porch. 

“ I think we’d better have the nurse get you into the 
house, Adam,” she said. 

He looked wistfully at the sky, I’d like to have a 
' good drenching,” he said to her. It can’t hurt me.” 

“ Nonsense,” she said. ‘‘ Don’t be silly.” She went 
into the house to call the nurse. 

He grumbled. “ A little rain won’t spoil me. You’d 
think I was a lump of sugar instead of clay.” 

The nurse and Mrs. Payson lifted the chair to the tiny 
front porch. 

“ I’ll stay out here, if you please,” said he, “ until it 
really begins to rain. I like the rush of the wind. Don’t 
worry. I won’t blow away. I’m anchored, safe 
enough.” 

They left him to wait for the sweep of the storm. 
Who can tell of the thoughts, the bitter conflict of 
thoughts, that ran through the keen, active brain of this 
wonderful man as he sat there glowering at a sky no 
blacker than his mood.? 

There was life in the wind that swept his grim, expres- 
sionless face ; there was strength in the way it came up to 
smite him, to caress him, to tantalise him. He opened 
his mouth and drank it in, and held his breath as if to 
keep it captive. His eyes shone with the love of it, with 
the hatred of it. He loved it because it was life; he 
hated it because it was dead when it left his lungs to go 
oozing out into the world again. And he knew it would 
come to life the instant it left him. He hated a dead 
thing. He hated his own body. He loved the wind be- 
cause it could live and die in the same breath, and live on. 
forever. 


438 


MARY MIDTHORNE 


He found himself wondering, at last, if there was a 
soul within him that lived and died, and lived and died> 
and went on living as the wind lived, without end through 
all time, — always and forever. It was a strange 
thought to him. He liked it. What was the wind but 
the rush of countless souls that came and went with each! 
succeeding breath The wind would never die. It 
would cease one day to visit his useless hulk, but it would 
go on forever just the same, carrying the last breath of 
him with it — the last bit of the soul of him. He liked 
the thought of it. There was something in It, after aU. 
liife went on with the wind; death stayed behind to rot. 
The wind would never die. Yes, that was what they 
meant when they said the soul would never die. Howi 
could it die.^^ 

In that short space of time, as the storm came up, 
Adam Carr began to grasp the elusive thing men call 
religion. He was not taking it on faith. He was be- 
ginning to reason it out. 

The first scattering drops of rain blew across his face. 
Someone moved behind him. He looked up. The nurse 
was at the head of his chair, smiling. 

“ It’s coming,” she said. 

Coming and going,” he said, with a smile she did not ' 
understand, it was so mysterious. 

Even as the door closed upon the gathering storm, a 
man hurried up from the sidewalk and lifted the knocker. 

Mrs. Payson admitted him. A tall, frail man whose 
hair was white. 

“ I’ve come, Adam, to see if we cannot be friends after 
all these bitter years,” said Horace Blagden, stopping 
still at the foot of the chair. 

Adam caught his breath. He was speechless for many 


THE CUP IS FULL 4<S9 

seconds; long, tense seconds they were. When words 
came, it was the old Adam Carr who uttered them. 

Horace,” he said, slowly, deliberately, “ it won’t 
seem natural not to hate you.” 

“ I understand,” said Mr. Blagden. “ It has not 
been easy for me, Adam.” 

Adam Carr addressed the wondering nurse. 

‘‘ Miss Hastings, will you be good enough to take Mr. 
Blagden’s hat and to push my chair over by the window ? 
And then you may leave us for awhile. I beg your par- 
don. This is Mr. Horace Blagden, the great man of 
Corinth.” 

Mr. Blagden did not wince. If there was a tinge of 
irony in the characterisation, it escaped him. He bowed 
graciously to the young woman and seated himself where 
he could look into the face of the man who had just 
made the admission — the one man in all Corinth to be- 
grudge him the distinction up to the present hour. Ah, 
it was something to get that out of Adam Carr! Now 
it was complete. His cup of satisfaction was full. 



STORIES OF RARE CHARM BY 

GENE STRATTON-PORTER 


May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap’s list 


LADDIE. 

Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer. 

This is a bright, cheery tale with tb4 
scenes laid in Indiana. The story is toW 
by Little Sister, the youngest member o4 
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There is a wedding midway in the book 
and a double wedding at the close. 

THE HAR\’ESTER. Illustrated by W. L. Jacobs. 

“The Harvester,” David Langston, is a man of the woods and 
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I FRECKLES , Decorations by E. Stetson Crawford. 

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A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST. 

Illustrated by Wladyslaw T. Brenda. 

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toren and unpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage 
AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW. 

Illustrations in colors by Oliver Kemp. 

The scene of this charming love story is laid in Central Indiana^ 
The story is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing 
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nature, and its pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all. 


Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York 



I 



ZANE GREY’S NOVELS 

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list 


THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

Colored frontispiece by W. Herbert Dunton. 

' Most of the action of this story takes place near the turbulent 
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DESERT GOLD 

Illustrated by Douglas Duer. 

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RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

Illustrated by Douglas Duer. 

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THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN 
Illustrated with photograph reproductions. 

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THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT 

I Jacket in color. Frontispiece. 

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young New Englander. The Mormon religion, however, demands 
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BETTY ZANE 

Illustrated by Louis F. Grant. 

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Life along the frontier, attacks by Indians, Betty’s heroic defense 
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and Betty’s final race for life,make up this never-to-be-forgotten story. 


Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York 


LR|.- D 71 








